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“STAND B/ YOUNG MAN, STAND BACK! YOU CANNOT PASS 
here!” — SEE rVGE 252. 



TILL YOUR FATHER,” SAID SHE SLO'VLY \!VD WtTH DIFFICULTY, 
“TELL HIM HONORA O’DAL/ FORilVfiS lIlM ”-S5E PAGE 158. 

BY MRS. J. SADLIER. 

NEW YORK : 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 164 WILLIAM STREET. 

Boston : 128 Fkoer.il Street. 


J 


NEW LIGHTS: 

OR, 

IFE IN GALWAY 


Montreal: cor. ok notre pame a.nd st. fraxcis xavirr sts. 





NEW LIGHTS; 


OR, 

LIFE IN GALWAY. 


y 

BY MRS. J. SADLIER, 



TVith demure-eyed conversion, fit sister and brother*, 


And covering with prisons and churches the land, 

Ail that won’t go to &ne, we’ll put into the other 

Moors. 


NEW YORK: 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 31 BARCLAY STREET. 

MOimiEAZt ^-KOXSE SAMS AtO) SX. IXtASOl!' XAVXZSK SSS81 



Copyright, 

D. & J. SADLIER & CO., 
1885. 


DEDICATED 


TO 

THE PEOPLE OF IRELAND. 


To the faithful, and much-enduring people of Ireland, to 
those who still cling with undying love to the beautiful land 
of their birth, enduring all things rather than break asunder 
the tie which binds them to ‘the Niobe of n??tions,’ and to 
those who, like myself, have left the graves of our fathers, 
to seek a home beneath foreign skies — all alike bound to- 
gether by the one glorious bond : our ancient, our time- 
honored, our n(!ver-changing faith — to them do I dedicate 
ihis little work. 

THE AUTHORESS. 

Montreal, 

Feast of the Purilication, 1853. 




NEW LIGHTS; 

oil, 

LIFE IN GALWAY. 


“ The good are better made by ill, 

As odors crush’d are sweeter still.”— Rogers. 


Far away in the extreme west of Ireland where 
the waters of Lough Corrib reflect the changeful 
hues of that ever-changing sky, there is a large, 
straggling village running up along the bank of a 
rivulet, from near the shore of the lake, for a dis- 
tance of nearly two miles. This village, which we 
shall call Killany, though having in itself little to 
interest the traveller, is still a desirable sojourn 
for the summer months, ‘ while the grass is on the 
fields and the blue is on the sky.’ The country 
around is, indeed, beautiful, though somewhat wild 
in its character, for the mountains of Connemara 
stand like giant sentinels in the neighborhood, 
receding from the inland view in many a grand 
perspective. Above the village, at a little distance, 

the rivulet begins to assume the appearance of a 

1 * 


6 


KEW lights; or, 


cascade, rushing down over the face of some pro- 
jecting rocks with a force that sends the spray 
a-dancing and glancing through the air. On and 
on rolls the merry stream, dashing over its rough 
channel, amid stones and fragments of rock, all tho 
way through the village — or rather beside it — till 
it makes a way for itself through a limestone rock 
to join the waters of the lake. The inhabitants of 
Killany are for the most part poor, though there 
are several families residing there who, as the say- 
ing is, hold their heads pretty high. Some years 
ago there was a tolerably brisk trade carried on 
across the lake, but these last miserable years have 
considerably injured the village and its commerce. 
Famine has been busy in the neighborhood, and 
with it came its handmaid pestilence, and the mis- 
ery .of the people was great. It is true that Kil- 
lany was not quite so severely scourged as some 
other places, but still it had its full measure ot 
sorrow and suffering; and even now, when the 
fiimine has exhausted its fury, there is still much 
destitution existing in that locality. Here, as in 
every other district of the south and west, ruin has 
been busy amongst the farming classes, and many 
a family has fallen, wdthin the last few years, from 
comfort and affluence and respectability, to want 
and penury and utter destitution. The worst of 
all is, that the distress is so general that those who 
would gladly assist their neighbors, and often did, 


LITE IN GALWAY. 


1 


feave no longer the means for those who are not 
reiiuced to beggary, find it as much as they can do 
to maintain themselves, and ‘ keep the wolf from 
the door.’ 

Amongst the families who experienced the 
greatest reverses during those long dreary years, 
was one whose fall was a cruel blow to the poor 
cf the vicinity. The father of the family, Bernard 
O’Daly, had been for many long years the strongest 
farmer about Killany. His farm was large, 
and well cultivated, his cattle of the best breed 
that could be procured, his barn and his haggard 
were plentifully filled year after year, and, in short, 
Bernard was always pointed out as a man 
particularly well to do in the world. In addition 
to these material blessings, Bernard O’Daly had a 
large family of sons and daughters, the like of 
whom were not to be found all the country over— 
his wife, it is true, was old, much older than her 
husband, and of broken health, but then she was 
surrounded by every comfort, and her periodical 
fits of sickness were of comparatively short dura- 
tion, since her daughters had grown up to 
womanhood, for Kathleen and Bridget O’Daly, the 
two eldest, were the kindest and best of nurses — 
ay ! and the best of housewives, too. There was 
a son older than they whose name was Corraac — 
a sedate, sober young man, who took upon himself 
the chief care of the farm — then next to Bridget 


0 


NEW lights; or, 


were twD other sons, Daniel and Owen, and last 
of all was a fair young creature, named Eveleeu, 
the pride and darling of the whole family. The 
children of the O’Daly family had been well and 
carefully brought up. There W'as a very good 
pchool in Killany, under the superintendence of 
t^e priest, and though they had to go a distance of 
a mile and a half to the village, yet the young 
people had attended year after year, (each boy 
and girl taking it in turn to stay at home to assist 
their parents,) until they had acquired a very good 
knowledge of the English language, which was to 
them a foreign tongue, as their father and mother 
spoke Irish for the most part. When their children 
grew up around them, all speaking English, then 
the parents began to speak it too, and gradually 
it became the language of the house, though not 
without considerable grumbling on the pari of the 
old people, who still considered, and spoke of it as 
‘the strangers’ tongue.’ But the gentle, modest 
manners, and upright minds of the young O’Dalys 
had not been acquired or formed solely in the 
school house; they were, from their very infan- 
cy, regular attendants at the catechism, taught 
and expounded every Sunday afternoon in the 
parish chapel about a mile distant. They had 
always been favorites with the priest, w^ho was 
well able to appreciate the \vx)rth of the family, 
and they, on their parts, listened with avidity tc 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


9 


every word of instruction, and lo^ed Father O' 
Driscoll better than any one else in the world, 
their parents, perhaps, excepted. 

While the world went well with the O’Dalys 
they kept a servant girl and two men-servants 
for caring the cattle and the two horses, and giving 
a hand at the farm-work. Then there were some 
ten or twelve laborers employed on the farm the 
greater part of the year, and during the time of 
putting in the crop, and again of taking it out and 
gathering it in, there were many more employed, 
both men and women. There was always plenty 
of everything in Bernard O’Daly’s, but never 
anything like waste, for Honora, his wife, was 
what is called a thrifty housewife, and brought up 
her daughters in the same habits. Hospitality 
was a virtue common to the whole family, and all 
the country round could bear vntness that theirs 
was 

“ the door 

That never was closed to the way- worn or poor.” 

But, as they said themselves, “it is a lorg lane 
chat has no turnin’,” and though prosperity 
attended the fortunes of the O’Dalys for many a 
long year, yet the time came at last wdien they 
were to have their trial, and to find everything 
goi^xg against them, where before all had gone on 
smoothly as the meadow-stream. The first of 
their misfortunes was the fatal potato-blight of 


10 


NEW lights; or, 


45 — then followed the death of cattle, and to 
make matters worse, a brother-in-law of Bernard’s, 
named Lawrence O’Sullivan, absconded one fine 
night, leaving poor Bernard to pay forty pounds, 
for which he had gone security in the Provincial 
Bank in Galway. Ibis was a fearful blow, for the 
money was not to be had, and so O’Daly was sued, 
an execution was granted, and every head of cattle 
he had was sold for the debt, together with his 
best horse. The clouds of adversity were gather- 
ing thickly around them, yet - the cheerful jjiety of 
the family was proof against all, and when any of 
the neighbors set about condoling with them, the 
invariable answer was, “Well ! sure it’s the will of 
God, and we have no right to complain— He gave 
us good things for this long time back, and it’s our 
turn now to bear a little hardship. W e’re no better 
than others that’s in want and misery on every 
side of us.” One by one they had to part with 
their servants until all were gone, the daughters 
and sons remarking, by way of consoling their 
parents : “ W ell ! there wouldn’t be any great use 
in keeping them now, for ourselves are more than 
able for all that’s to be done.” But still it was impos- 
sible not to feel, and feel deeply, the rapid though 
gradual destruction — the melting away, as it were, of 
all their goodly possessions, and though each 
individual tried to conceal it from the others, yet all 
were saddened and disheartened. Por a while the} 


LIFE I„V «.ALWAT. 


il 


kept up the old appearance of respectability ; as 
long as the old clothes could be made to look any 
way decent, there was no outward sign of poverty, 
visible. But alas ! even the skilful industry of 
Kathleen and Bridget could not keep things from 
wearing out : they altered, and turned, and scoured, 
and dyed, until the garments would bear no 
more, and it was pitiful to see the consternation 
of the whole family, when it was found that 
“ Cormac’s best coat” or “ Owen’s buff vest” wasn’t 
worth “ doing anything to,” or that “ father’s brown 
surtout” was “ beginning to look very shabby.” 
There was no longer any means of replacing the 
articles in question, and hence their decay was a 
serious event to those who would fain have kept up 
a decent appearance, at least “in the chapel on 
Sunday,” still hoping that better times would come 
again. Many a tear of sympathy was shed by their 
neighbors, especially the poor, over the falling for- 
tunes of the O’Dalys, and the change in their 
personal appearance in chapel, or fair, or market, 
drew forth many a heavy sigh. 

“ Och, then, Nelly dear,” said one old woman 
to another, as they sat together in a corner of the 
chapel-yard after mass, one Sunday, “ isn’t it a 
thousand pities to see the change that’s cornin’ 
over Barney O’Daly’s family ?” 

“You may say that, Judy !” replied the other. 

I declare myself could cry for them, and sur« 


12 


NEW lights; or 


enough hut it went to my heart this very day to 
Bee the boys lookin’ so shabby, an’ the girls, too. 
An’ och ! och ! but it’s they that never carried 
their heads too high when they had full an’ plenty 
about them. The Lord comfort them this day, 
and rise them out of the poverty again ! I pray 
that from my heart out !” and the good creature 
raised her clasped hands and her tearful eyes to 
heaven. 

“Well indeed,” said Judy, wiping her eyes, 
“ I’m a hungry woman this blessed day, and didn’t 
break my fast yet, an’ God he knows I’d sooner go 
without eatin’ another day than see one of them 
havin’ an hour’s hunger, for while they had it we 
didn’t want.” 

“True for you, ahagur. But what’s that you 
said about not havin’ broken your fast? Was it 
because you were goin’ to communion ?” 

“ Well ! that was the raison,” said Judy, “ thanks 
be to God for it, I did get communion, but,” shft 
added, with a forced smile, “ even if I wanted to take 
my breakfast, I hadn’t any to take, for I havn’t a 
mouthful of anything in the house that a body could 
cat.” 

“Faix, then, it’s lucky that you tould me,” 
replied Nelly, “for, my dear. I’ve a beautiful 
little dish of meal that I got last night from Nancy 
McBreen, the priest’s housekeeper — God bless 
iiim an’ her botn, for it’s hard to tell which ot 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


13 


Viem has the most feelin’ for the poor ; an’ so you’ll 
jist come home an’ take part of it with me — we’ll 
have a good dinner at any rate.” 

“ Well, but, Nelly astore pleaded poor Judy, 
“ What will you do when the meal’s done, an’ you 
havin’ the two little grandchildren wdth you ? Many 
uhanks to you, but I’ll not go ! I have only 
myself, and I’ll get a mouthful somewhere that’ll 
keep the life in me.” 

“ Nonsense, woman 1” cried Nelly, almost an- 
grily, “ do you think I’d let an ould neighbor go 
off to look for a chance bit, an’ me havin’ some- 
thing at home? Jist get up now and come along 
home with me — never you mind what I’ll do when 
the meal’s out — we’ll lave that to God.” 

“Well! well! I see there’s no use in excusin’ 
myself,” said J udy, standing up, as her friend had 
already done, “ sure I know that God won’t let you 
suffer for dividin’ your little bit with one. poorer 
than yourself.” So saying, she drew the hood of 
her old cloak over her head, and the two old 
women hobbled away. 

Meanwhile there was a dialogue of a different 
character going on in^ another corner, under the 
shade of a large old sycamore tree. The speakers 
were a young man and an old one : the former 
clad in a faded-looking blue coat with brass 
buttons, and pantaloons of drab cloth considerably 
the worse for wear, and the latter in a dark brown 


14 


NEW lights; or, 


siirtout, with knee-breeches of gray corduroy, and 
B broad- brimmed hat that had once been a good 
beaver. The old man stood leaning on a stick 
with hands clasped, and was speaking in an earnest 
tone. It seemed that both were waiting for the 
appearance of some person. “ I couldn’t bring 
myself to speak to the master himself about it, 
Ccrmac !” said he, “ but, of course, it will just do as 
well to speak to the priest. At any rate, there’s 
no use in letting it run any longer, for every day 
will make the matter worse.” 

“Well, now’s your time, father,” said the young 
man in a low voice, “ for here’s Father O’Driscoll 
now. So while you’re talking together, I’ll just go 
over there to Larry Doolan that I see at the chapel- 
door, and have a talk with him about America.” 
Larry had but recently returned from the United 
States. 

“ Good morning, Bernard !” said the priest, as 
he approached the old man, who was no other than 
our friend Bernard O’Daly. “ How is all with 
you to-day It is something new to see* you at 
chapel alone !” 

“ A good morning kindly to your reverence !” 
and the old man touched his hat respectfully. 
“We’re all middling well as to the health, thanks 
to you for asldng, and sure the whole family was 
at mass, thanks be to God, except the old woman 
herself that’s not ver^ sti ong, you know, an’ little 


LIFK IN GALWAY. 


IS 


Eveleen that staid at home to keep her company. 
The boys and girls hurried off home as soon as 
mass was over, only Cormac that staid to be 
back with me. He’s just gone over there to 
speak to Larry Doolan.” 

“ Indeed !” said the priest, who "was a man of 
some forty years or thereabouts, with a pale, intel- 
lectual countenance, and dark, thoughtful-looking 
eyes. “ Has he some thoughts of America then ?” 

“Well! I don’t know, your reverence,” replied 
the old man hesitatingly, “ times are bad here, and 
we havn’t the same way of doing that we had. 
Cormac thinks — poor fellow ! that if he was in 
America he could do something to help us, and — ” 

“ And so he might, Bernard ! and I would strongly 
advise him to go, and Daniel, too — it is the very . 
best thing they could do.” 

The poor father fetched a deep sigh as he 
answered — “I believe it is, your reverence, — I 
believe it. But sure I know you havn’t broket 
your fast yet after say in’ mass, so I can’t be keep in’ 
you standing here. I just wanted — ahem ! to ask 
a little favor from your reverence.” 

“Well 1” said the priest, in a kind tone, “I only 
hope that you are going to ask something that 
can do, fbr it would go hard indeed with me to 
lefuse you the first favor you ever asked of me.” 

“ I know that, sir, I do indeed, and that’s th« 
laison why I came to trouble your reverence at 


16 


NEW lights; or 


this lime. It’s about the school-money, Father O* 
Driscoll, that’s due the master beyond for my 
little girl and boy. I’d be very willin’ to pay it ii 
I could, your reverence, but* — the old man stop- 
ped — coughed — his thin cheek grew somewhat 
redder — “ but — I may as well tell the truth at 
once — I can’t raise the money, do what I will. So 
I just came to ask your reverence to interfere with 
the master for me — if God sends me the means 
again I’ll pay him, an’ that’s all I can do.” 

The priest was silent for a moment — walked a 
step or two away — then turned back, took out his 
snuff-box and took a pinch, then handed it to 
Bernard. This gave him an excuse for using his 
handkerchief. 

“Sad times these, Bernard ! sad, sad times”— 
the handkerchief was again used. “Well, my 
friend — my good, my long-tried friend, so you 
were unwilling to speak to me on this business — 
ah ! Bernard O’Daly ! I think you should havfc 
known me better ! — well ! no matter. I’ll settle 
it with McEgan — send the children to school as 
usual.” 

“ I will, your reverence, an’ many thanks to 
you — that is, we’ll send them if we cau keep 
ilcthes on them. Ahem ! ahem ! — well ! good 
morning to you, sir, an’ my blessin’ be with you 
'•vis day an’ every day you rise.” 

“Good bye, Bernard!” said Father O’Driscoll, 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


11 


warmly shaking the old man’s hand — “ tell Mrs, 
O’Daly I’ll be over one of these evenings to sea 
her.” 

“ Do, sir, an’ God bless you, for we want to 
have your opinion about the boys, an’ som^ other 
little matters that poor Honora has on her mind.” 

Father O’Driscoll made a sign to the boy wnc 
was walking his horse up and down, but before he 
got his foot in the stirrup, he was stopped by a 
pale, delicate-looking woman with a young child in 
her arms : “ Could I have a word with your 

reverence 1” 

“Well, my good woman — oh! you’re Katty 
Boyce — well ! Katty— -what’s wrong with you 

Before the woman could answer, a man standing 
by exclaimed : “ Don’t mind her, your reverence, 
she gets soup from the Bible-readers — she’s not 
to be trusted. Father O’Driscoll.” 

“Well!” said the priest calmly, “I must hear 
what she has to say ? — is it true, Katty, that you 
take ‘ the soup V ” 

“ Och, then, it is, your reverence — God help 
me ! it’s true enough, an’ that’s just what I was 
cornin’ to spake to you about, sir,” throwing a 
reproachful look at the informer : “ people shouldn’t 
liolla till they’re out o’ the wood — may be your 
self, Tom Hynes, might have to call at tlw 
Boup Ik)usc before all’s over.” 


18 NEW lights; or, 

“ Well, well, Katty,” said the priest, “ never mind 
Tom, but tell me what is the matter with you.” 

“I will, your reverence. You know, sir, ever 
since our Micky died, myself an’ and the children’s 
in the heighth o’ distress — I needn’t tell you that, 
for many’s the time you relieved us — well ! about 
three weeks ago Mrs. Perkins — you know her, 
your reverence — the lady that goes around with 
the tracts — well ! she persuaded me to go an’ 
apply for some o’ the soup an’ bread’ an’ when I 
said that I wouldn’t go on any account for fear I’d 
have to go to church, or get my name down as a 
Prodestan’, oh ! she was as sweet as sugar, an’ 
tould me that I mightn’t be the laste afeard o’ 
that, for that she’d put in a good word for me, that 
I wouldn’t be asked any questions at all about my 
religion — ‘ for,’ says she, ‘ my poor woman ! I do 
feel very much for you — indeed I do !’ so, sir, to 
make a long story short, I went every day with 
my can an’ got some soup an’ a loaf o’ bread, an’ 
for a week or so there wasn’t a word said about 
religion, but last Saturday week, Mr. O’Flanagan 
that gives out the soup began to me in style, an’ 
he said if I didn’t let my name be put down in the 
book as a Prodestan’, I might go far enough before 
he’d be servin’ me every day. Well ! sir, I tould 
him plump an’ plain that I wouldn’t, an’ so he bid 
me be off, an’ never to shew my face again unless 
I’d do what they w^aiitcd. I staid away two or 


LIFE IN G ALW A S , 


18 


tiirec days, and tried to gather a bit among the 
neighbors, but ochone ! they hadn’t it tho/m- 
selves, the craturs j let alone for another, an’ the 
weeny things were cryin’ vnth the dint of hunger, 
an’ myself didn’t know what to do. I prayed to 
God to keep me from the temptation, an’ to give me 
siome way to keep us all from star\dn’, but no relief 
came, an’ after we were a whole day an’ night 
without tastin’ bit, bite, or sup, I got a’most crazed 
listenin’ to the pitiful cries o’ the children, an’ off 1 
runs again to the soup-house: ‘Well!’ says O’ 
Flanagan, says he, ‘ you’re back agtiin, are you V 
‘ Yes,’ says I, ‘ I’m cornin’ to ask charity from you 
again.’ ‘Ha! ha I’ says he, ‘you see you can’t 
do without us after all." I suppose I’m to put 
down your name now 1’ an he brings out a big 
book, an’ sure enough when I looked at it I began 
a tremblin’ all over. 'liHere now,’ says he, dippin’ 
his pen in the ink bottle, ‘ what’s this your name 
is ‘I was in hopes, sir,’ says I, ‘ that you’d give 
me a little help for this day, without askin’ me to 
get down my name — do ! an’ God bless you 1’ 

‘ Not as much as would fall from your finger,’ says 
he back to me, an’ then he began to look very 
angry, an’ says he, ‘ Get you gone, you ignorant 
slave of’ — something — I don’t remember what the 
other long word Avas — ‘ never darken this door 
again, you may starve and die like a pig, for 
you’re no better.’ With that, your reverence, up 


20 


NEW IIOHTS; OR, 


comes a smooth-faced, well-spoken gentleman with 
a black coat an’ a white cravat, an’ he says to O’ 
rianagan, ‘ Don’t be so short with the poor woman 
— ^you converts from Romanism are over-warm 
at times’ — then turnin’ round to myself he says to 
ne, ‘ Since you have such an objection to have 
your name registered as a Protestant, my good 
woman, we must not be too hard with you — you are 
well recommended to us by that good lady Mrs. 
Perkins, so you can have whatever provisions you 
want, without being put on the books — which is, 
I assure you, a great favor ! — only send your chil- 
dren to our school — that will do you or them no 
harm, nor will it at all affect your religion !’ 
‘Well, but, sir,’ says I, thinkin’ to get oft', ‘the 
children havn’t a stitch on them.’ ‘ No matter,’ 
says he, ‘ no matter for that, you know we give 
good, comfortable clothes to all the children 
attending our schools.* When I seen the new tack 
they w'ere on, I thought I’d jist come an’ ax your 
advice, Father O’Driscoll, an’ that I’d do the best 
I could till then.” 

“Well! and what did you say to this last 
proposal inquired the priest. 

“ Why 1 I said, sir,” said the w(rman hesitatingly, 
“ that I couldn’t consent to that at all, an’ that I’d 
sooner they’d put my name in 'the book than U 
send the children to a Prodestan’ school — for that 


life in GALWAY. 


21 


I wouldn’t put them in danger for the world — I’d 
sooner we’d all die of hunger than that.” 

“ So you allowed them to put down your own 
laame as a Protestant 

“ I did, your reverence — the Lord forgive me ! 
—because I said to myself that so long as they 
didn’t ax me to go to their church, it didn’t make so 
great a difference, an’ that so long as God an’ your 
reverence an’ all good Christians would know me 
for a Catholic, I mightn’t care much about them 
havin’ my name in their book.” 

Father O’Driscoll smiled at the poor woman’s 
logic. “ Well ! but what did they say when you 
refused to send your children 1” 

“ O’Flanagan’s face grew as red as a turkey’s 
head, your reverence, an’ he was for orderin’ me 
away altogether, but the smooth-spoken man said 
to let me alone in my own way, an’ sure enough I 
seen him winkin’ at O’Flanagan, an’ so they 
entered my name in the big book — the Lord in 
heaven forgive me for that same !” and she crossed 
herself devoutly, “ an’ I got my soup and my bread 
regular these three days back. So that’s jist what 
I wanted to spake to your reverence about.” 

“Well! my poor woman,” said the priest, who 
had listened to her long story with one foot in the 
stirrup and the other on the ground, “ you have 
done very wrong in having anything to do with 
these people, but I am glad to find thatyouroAwed 


22 


NEW LI BHTS ; OR 


to send your children to the Protestant school. 
They would have been better pleased to have had 
the children even than your name, for they have a 
greater chance of succeeding with them than 
with the parents. Keep your little ones from 
all communication with them,” he added, raising 
his voice so as to be heard by all around, “ as for 
yourself, God direct us for the best !” he sighed 
deeply — “ we must endeavor to do something for 
you, so that you may not be obliged to solicit 
charity again from those tempters.” 

“Ah ! then, that’s the droll charity that they’ll 
give,” said a stout, chubby-faced man coming for- 
•ward — “sure they wouldn’t give the weight of a 
pin to save every man, woman and child about 
Killany from starvation, if it wasn’t that they’re 
trying to buy us up. Stand out o’ my w'ay there, 
you Peery Boyce, till I spake to his reverence. 
Father O’Driscoll, sir. I’m in want of a woman— 
or at least the woman that owns me is — to spin 
some wool, an’ as poor Katty here is so badly off, 
I’ll take her out o’ the hands o’ the Philistines.-- 
Just come over in the mornin’, Katty, and begin 
your work, and you can tell the children to come over 
after you till they get their breakfast — let you and 
our Nanny agree between you about the payment.” 

“ God bless you, Phillip — God bless you and 
yours I” said the priest, fervently, as he mounted 
his horse — “ may He repay you an hundred fold !— 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


23 


you are doing me a great kindness, too, by gi v’ing 
this poor creature some employment — now, Katty ! 
you see how God has raised up a friend for you in 
your greatest need — return thanks to him for this 
new favor !” 

Katty was now laughing and sobbing alternately. 
“ Sure I know that, your reverence, I know that ! 
My blessin’ an’ the blessin’ of God be about you 
both ! Ah ! ha ! now I can go an’ order them to. 
lake my name off o’ the cursed book — oh ! glory 
be to God this day ! I’ll be over in the mornin’, 
Mr. McGuire, as soon as the day breaks — if God 
spares me till then !” 

The crowd now separated to make way for the 
priest to pass, Phil Maguire following after mounted 
on a white pony, and as the good man rode slowly 
along in the wake of the priest, he was greeted by 
a cheer such as only the warm-hearted Celt can 
give. The story was quickly whispered around,* 
and before honest Phil could reach the gate, he 
heard his name pronounced on every side, accom- 
panied with abundant blessings. Phil began to 
feel quite ashamed, and muttering, “what a fuss 
they make about nothing !” he pushed his little 
nag to her utmost speed, and at last escaped from 
the chapel-yard, much to his own satisfaction, and 
to the no small amusement of the priest, who had 
been a silent observer of the scene. 

“ So you have got away at last, Phil said 


H 


FEW lights; or, 


Falhei O’Driscoll, as they rode along side by 
side, for their road lay in the same direction. 

“ 1 have, your reverence,” and Phil wiped the 
perspiration off his flaming countenance, “ an’ if !<• 
wasn’t a job to make my way through, never say 
my name’s Phil Maguire, Weill thecraturs! if 
they don’t beat the world wide for gratitude ! — it’s 
a thousand pities to see them as they are !” 

“ You may well say that, my good friend !” ob- 
served the priest, “ but you know it is written that 
those whom God loves he chastises — that is our 
only consolation. Oh ! that is your way homo— 
w ell ! God bless you, Phil.” 


CHAPTER II. 


•* Puck found it handier to commence 
With a certain share of impudence, 

Which passes one off as learned and clever 
Beyond all other degrees whatever.” 

Moore, Song </ Old Puck. 

When Bernard O’Daly was rejoined by hia 
son, they set out for their honae, and on the way 
Cormao told his father that he had made up his 
mind to go to America, provided his parents gave 
their consent. “ You know, father dear,” said he, 
“ that from the present state of this unfortunate 
country, we have none of us any other prospect 
tnan that of endless misery, and if God spares me 
to reach America, I hope I’ll be able to do some- 
thing for you all. That’s the main object I have 
in view.” 

The old man sighed heavily, and for a moment 
he made no answer. When he did speak, his 
voice was low and tremulous. “ I know, Cormao 
— I know you mean well — an’ I can’t blame you 
for wantin’ to go, because I see plainly that there’s 
nothing to be done here — but then — ah ! my son, 
it will be a sore, sore crush to your poor mother— 


26 


NEW lights; or, 


not to speak of myself — och, it will, it will, indeed, 
Cormac !” 

“Well, but, father,” resumed Cormac, gulping 
down as well as he could his owm strong emotion, 
“ you know it’s the very best thing I can do — it 
may be the means of taking the whole of us out 
of poverty — and, besides, I may be only a year or 
two away till I can send for you all — perhaps 
come home for you ! Think of that, father dear !” 

“ I do think of it, Cormac, but God only knows 
what might happen to us all in two years, or even 
one — you might find us in our could graves, my 
son, when you would come. But, sure, sure, if 
it’s the will of God for you to go, it wouldn’t be 
us that w^ould say against you. An’ after all, I 
think it is His will, for Father O’Driscoll advises 
me to let you go — ay! an’ Daniel too. Well! 
well ! there’s many a fine family scattered over 
the world in these times, an’ sure we must expect 
our share of what’s goin’ — ^good morrow to ’v ou, 
Phil.” 

“ Good morrow kindly, Bernard 1” returned our 
acquaintance, Phil Maguire, reining in his white 
Dag ; “ how’s all with you the day *?” 

“ Well, thank God an’ you. I hope you’ve the 
same story to tell 1” 

“ Why, for the matter o’ that, Bernard, we’re 
all in good health, an’ as long as God spares us 
enough to cat, we’d be very ungrateful to complain. 


LIFE IN GALWi> T. 


27 


>V iiy, Cormac, my man ! what’s the matter with 
y ju'} 1 declare to my heart your face is nearly 
as long an’ as sour as if you were one o’ the Bible- 
readers. Arrah ! hould up your head like a maa^ 
it’s newens for you to be down-hearted.” 

“Well, if you knew but all, Phil !” said Bernard, 
confidentially Icw'ering his voice, and sidling up 
close to the nag — “ it’s no wonder he’d be 
down-hearted now — and we too — sure there’s 
blaok trouble on us !” 

“ Why, is there anything new' V’ said Phil, 
earnestJy. . - 

“ Listen here, Phil !” Maguire bent his head to 
listen. “ Sure, Cormac is goin’ to leave us — ay ! 
indeed is he — goin’ away to America, poor fel- 
low !” 

“ Pho ! pho !” said Phil, evidently much re- 
lieved, “ if that’s all, I don’t pity you much. Why, 
man, myself thought by the hummin’ and hawin’ 
you had — not to speak of Cormac’s pitiful-lookin’ 
face — that some o’ the young ones had been w'heed* 
led away by the Jumpers ! My sowl to glory, 
O’Daly, but it’s glad I am to hear what you tell 
me. An’ when do you intend to start, Cormac, 
aroon 

“ That depends on my father and mother, Phih 
It will not take long x> prepare, I suppose, but— 
between you and me, Phil — ” Here it was Cor- 
mac’s turn to look round, and lower nis voice ’ 


38 


NEW lights; or, 


“ between you and me, it will be no easy niattei 
for us to make up enough to pay my passage. 
That’s what grieves me most, for I know it will 
leave them all bare and naked for many a day to 
come.” 

Phil was suddenly taken with a bad fit of cough* 
ing, which he did not get over for some minutes, 
And by that time he had reached the foot of his 
own lane. “ Why, then, bad manners to this 
cough,” said he, clearing his voice, “ it’s alw^ays at 
the wrong time it comes on me, so it is. Well ! 
God be with you both till I see you agaiji — an’ 
above all, be sure an’ dieep your hearts — all’s not 
lost that’s in danger — d’ye mind me now And 
without waiting for an answer, honest Phil turned 
down the lane, and rode leisurely home. When 
he had put up his nag, Phil went into the house, 
and whilst waiting for his dinner, began to give his 
wife an account of the morning’s work he had been 
doing. Having first ascertained that Nanny was 
somewhat recovered from the sudden sickness that 
had kept her from going to mass, he went on with 
liis story, and when it was ended he called upon 
Nanny to “ rejoice and be glad,” for that they had 
the means of saving poor Katty and her children 
from the jaws of temptation. 

“ Humph !” says Nanny, who was far from 
sharing her husband’s liberality, “ It’s great cause 
^or rejoicin’ Fm sure— 1 declare it’s an estate you 


LIFE IN QALWAT. 


29 


ought to ha re Phil Maguire — nothing less is any 
use to you — an’ then you could gather all the beg- 
gars in the county round you.” 

“ An’ I’m blest but I would, Nanny !” rejoined 
the husband, “ hut, tut, woman, don’t be so hard — 
sure, when God is so good to us as to give us full 
an’ plenty, isn’t it the least we can do to divide it 
with them that’s in want 1 Bless my soul, Nanny ! 
won’t it be all here after us — we can take none of 
it to the grave with us !” 

“ Well, well, there’s no use, I know, in talkin’ 
to you, for you’re ever an’ always the same — but 
come over here an’ take your dinner. Myself 
doesn’t much care for that Katty Boyce — there’s 
many a creature in the parish that’s as badly off 
as she is — ay, troth is there, hundreds o’ them — 
that wouldn’t go near the Jumpers — don’t tell me 
about her bein’ in want, that’s no excuse, Phil ! — 
no excuse in the world — she’s not the thing, I tell 
you !” 

“ Come, now, Nanny,” said Phil, coaxingly, 
“ don’t be too severe on the poor creature — neither 
you nor I knows what we’d do if we were starvin’ 
•wdth the hunger, an’ listenin’ to the children cry in’ 
for what we hadn’t to give them — there’s no dan- 
ger of that with us, any how, Nanny, beijause we 
hain’t them to cry — but sure, may be we’d do 
that an’ worse — well, no, we couldn’t do worse, 
let us do as we would — but at any rate, Nanny 


50 


NEW lights; or, 


dear, it’s hard to stand hunger — bedud it is sc . 
An’ them villains o’ the world knows that well !” 

“ Nanny,” said Plrl, after a while’s silence, “ I 
hope you’ll stir yourself an’ get that wool spun as 
fast as you can — if you’ll only have me two or 
three pairs of good long stockings knitted in the 
course of a fortnight or so. I’ll buy you an elegant 
new shawl when they’re finished.” 

Nanny stopped short in her w^ork — she wa^ 
washing the dinner dishes — and fixed her keen gray 
eyes on her husband. “ Humph !” it w^as her 
favorite interjection, “ Humph ! there’s something 
else in the wind now,” said she at length, “ and 
you may just as well tell me what it is at oust.” 

“ Indeed an’ I wdll then, Nanny, for I don’t w'ant 
to keep it a sacret from you. Poor Cormac 
O’Daly is goin’ to America very soon !” 

“Well, an’ what’s that to us 1” said Nanny, 
gruffly. 

“ It’s only this,” returned Phil, resolutely, “ that 
1 want to give him something to keep his leg? 
warm when he’s away next winter far from hi? 
mother and sisters, an’ where he won’t have Nan 
ny Maguire’s nimble fingers to knit him a pair oa 
two of stockings. They’re all strangers where the 
poor boy’s goin’, an’ you an’ I knows him a long, 
long time, Nanny, dear — ” 

“ Ay, that’s always the way with you, Phil,” 
snapped Nanny again, “ when you’re wantin’ to 


I 


A 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 31 

come round me any way, you can give a good rub 
of the blarney — Nanny Maguire’s nimble fingers, 
as you call them, have something else to do be* 
sides knitting stockings for Master Cormac O’Daly, 
Let his mother and his dandy sisters knit for him.’* 
“ So you won’t do it, Nanny 
“ No, nor the sorra a stitch, Phil.” 

Well, well — it can’t be helped,” said Phil, af- 
fecting a tone of disappointment, knowing well, all 
the time, what would happen, for he could wind 
up Nanny, with all her sharpness, just as easily as 
he wound up his huge silver watch. 

No more was said on the subject, but the very 
next day the nimble fingers were busily at work 
on what Phil well knew to be Cormac’s stockings, 
though he affected to take no notice of what was 
going on. 

Early in the morning came Katty Boyce, pale 
as ever, with her still paler infant on her arm — the 
poor child was more than two years old, yet still 
nelpless and feeble from the total want of nourish- 
ment. While his mother worked, he sat on the 
floor at her feet playing with one little thing or 
another, and looking much better than usual, thanks 
to Nanny Maguire’s kindness. The other two 
children came about breakfast time, and having 
got their little stomachs well filled with good oat- 
meal-porrkch and fresh milk, they returned home 


52 


NEW lights; DR, 


(.0 fetch their hooks, as Phil declared they must g4 
to school that very day: 

“ What books have they, Katty *?” said Phil, 
turning into the house after seeing them olf. 

“Well, indeed, myself doesn’t know, Misther 
Maguire. They’re two little books that Father 
O’Driscoll gave them when they were goin’ to 
his school.” 

“ Oh, very well, Katty, that’s the very thing, for 
when the priest gave them to them they’re sure 
to be the right sort. I’ll go out now, Nanny, 
honey, to see how the men’s gettin’ on in the field 
abroad, an’ when the children comes you can give 
me a call, an’ I’ll go down with them to the school - 
house.” 

But though Phil staid in the field till dinner- 
time, there was no call given, for the children did 
not return, and great was their mother’s fear lest 
they had met with some mischance. Phil came in 
at last, to his dinner, and his first question was 
about Katty Boyce’s children. No one could tell 
anything of them, and Phil began to ruminate. 
After sitting silent a few minutes, with his eyes 
fixed on the flickering turf fire, the muscles of his 
face began to work, his ruddy cheek waxed rud- 
dier still, and at last he clenched his fist and started 
to his feet, evidently under some sudden inspira- 
tion : “ Ah, the kidnappei s ! the thievin’ villains !” 
he exclaimed, in a tone that made the women 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


33 


Start, while the men at the table dropped their 
knives and forks, and looked round in amazement 
at their master. 

“ Why, what in the world wide ails you, Phil V' 
cried Nanny, anxiously. 

“ What ails me !” shouted Phil, who was hurry- 
ing to and fro across the kitchen in a way that ex- 
cited no small fear for his senses. “ Isn’t it enough 
to make any man mad to see them white-livered 
dogs — the Jumpers — prowlin’ about like wild 
beasts, watchin’ for their chance to pounce on 
poor little innocent children, and miserable starvin’ 
creatures, an’ draggin’ them away to their den — 
now. I’ll tell you what it is,” he said, in a some- 
what calmer tone, and stopping short in his walk 
in front of Katty Boyce, “the kidnappers have 
caught them cliildren of yours, as sure as you’re 
sittin’ there.” 

“The Lord save us, Misther Maguire — do you 
think so f ’ 

“ Think so ! — I tell you I’m sure of it.” 

"An’ so you may, masther,” said one of the 
men, Patsey Reams by name, “ for I’ve seen 
them myself as often as I’ve fingers an’ toes on me, 
gettin’ into discoorse with the children along the 
road goin’ to school, an’ try in’ to palaver them.” 

“ But sure they wouldn’t be so bould as to take 
the little creatures away with them that way ia 


NEW lights; or, 


u 

the middle o’ day -light. ‘VVouldn’t they Know 
that their people would be lookin’ after them f ’ 

“ Fiddle-de-dee !” cried Phil, contemptuously. 
“You know nothing at all about them, Nanny ; 1 
tell you they’d do anything — anything in the world, 
a’most, to get the name of a convert — man, wo- 
man, or child — good, bad, or indifferent — it’s all 
the same to them, only get old or young away 
from Popery. D’y hear me this, boys V’ he said, 
addressing the men, “ wouldn’t it be a good deed 
to go an’ see what has become of these children, 
just for the fun of it — ^let alone the charity that it 
will be — eh now — what do you think? which of 
you’ll come with me — I only want one or two ?” 

“ Indeed, I’ll go, in a thousand welcomes !” said 
Patsey. And Che others having all answered in 
like manner, 

“ Be easy, now,” said Phil, “ I’ll just take Patsey 
an’ Brian here — let the rest of you go back to youi 
work — but sit a little while first, after your din, 
ner. By the tar o’ war we’ll have some fun this 
very day, or I’m not Phil Maguire of Ballyhasel.” 

Nanny remonstrated, remarking, that it was 
“ easy to get into trouble, but not so easy to get 
out of it and Katty, her eyes swimming in tears, 
begged him not to put himself ir any danger on 
account of her children. 

“ Danger !” said Phil ; “ oh, the sorra much dan- 
ger there’s in it — them lads knows Phil Maguire 


Ll GALWAY. 35 

of old, an’ they’ll get rid of me as easy as they 
can. Put on your ctats, hoys, an’ come along. 
Don’t be afeard, Nanny, there will be nothing 
wrong, I warrant you.” 

“Well ! God grant it!” sighed Nanny, making 
a virtue of necessity. 

It w^as but a few hundred yards across the fields 
to the pleasant knoll whereon was seated the great 
Protestant school-house of the district — to wit, a 
long, low building, with a slated roof, “white- washed 
wall and nicely-sanded floor.” Phil walked right up 
to the open door — rested his hand on either side 
against the door-cheeks and popped in his head : 
(having stationed his companions outside in waiting 
against any emergency.) 

“The top o’ the mornin’ to you. Mister Jenkin- 
son 1” The long-faced functionary nodded, or 
rather bent his head. “ I want them two little 
boys of Katty Boyce’s that you have in there,” 
continued Phil. 

“ I know not who you mean, my good fellow 1” 
said the grave teacher in a grave voice. “ Wherefore 
do you come at an unseasonable hour to interrupt 
the peace of the school 

“But I know myself who I mean, my good 
fellow ! — if that’s your word — an’ you knew as 
well as I do, an’ if you don’t give me out the 
children. I’ll ‘ interrupt the pace’ in earnest for you. 
Out with them here in one minnit ! — no hugger mujf 


36 


NEW lights; or, 


gerin’ there in the corner!” seeing tlie cadaverous- 
looking pedagogue whispering with an elderly female 
at the other end of the school. 

“ Man !” said J enkinson, coming slowdy forward, 
“ man, I know you not^ — by what authority do you 
claim these children — that is, if they are here — 
W'hich I say not that they are 

“ ril soon see whether they are or not,” returned 
Phil, and raising his voice to the highest pitch, he 
called out — “Jemmy and Terry Boyce, where are 
you, children 1” 

“ Here, sir !” and “ here, sir !” answered two 
faint voices from the lower end of the room, and 
two little pale faces were raised over the heads of 
the others. 

“ Come out here, then 1” said Phil, “ your mother 
Wyants you at our house.” The little boys were 
running to the door, when the lady — it w’as that 
excellent woman Mrs. Perkins — took hold of one, 
and Jenkinson grabbed at the other, like a shark 
in danger of losing his prey. 

They shall not go from here 1” said Mrs. Perkins 
in a tone of authority, “ I myself induced them to 
come in this morning w hen I met them on the 
road — and they shall not go hence unless their 
mother comes for them.” 

“ Arrah ! by your leave, ma’am ’” said Phil, 
with a comical smile, at the same time beckoning 
over his shoulder to Patsey and Brian, “ sure such 


LIFE IN OALWAT. 


31 


ft nice, genteel lady as you wouldn’t keep any poor 
woman out of her own children? — ^you would — 
would you ? — well, here, boys, come in an’ take the 
little ones.” 

Jenkinson shrank back, and let go his prey, 
when the brawny arm of Patsey was laid on the 
boy’s shoulder ; but Mrs. Perkins waxed strong 
in her womanly prerogative, well knowing that no 
violent hand would be laid on her. “ I tell you, 
men ! that you shall not have the child — agents of 
the devil you are, and I cannot consent to give up 
the poor boy to your machinations. Go back and 
tell your priest who sent you here, that the child 
is in safe keeping until his mother comes to claim 
him.” 

“ You’re under a triflin’ mistake, ma’am,” said 
Phil, coolly ; “ the priest knows no more about 
what I’m doin’ than the man in the moon. But if 
it goes to thatj what business had you to wheedle 
the boys in here ? — tell me that now !” 

“ I found them idling along the way-side,” 
returned Mrs. Perkins, “ and so I prevailed upon 
them to come in and listen to the words of wisdom. 
My heart yearned over the innocent children, and 
the spirit within urged me to draw them into the 
right path — the path of solid learning and Scrip 
tural knowledge ! — would tliat 1 could win you 
too, my dear good man ! to enter upon the way 
of heavenly light 1” 

4 


98 


NEW lights: or 


“ Mai y thanks to you, ma’am,” said Phil, casting 
a sly glance at Brian and Patsey, “ but as I happen 
to be in the way you speak of already, I don’t 
think you’ll make anything of me — so the bait 
won’t take, an’ you needn’t bother yourself thro win’ 
it out — I think your black-avised friend there can 
tell you that, though he pretended not to know me. 
Come, boys, take the children an’ let us go ; we’re 
only losin’ our time here.” 

“Maguire!” said Jenkinson, when he saw the 
two boys walking away with Patsey and Brian, 
“Maguire, I’ll make you repent of this job — and 
that before you are much older 1” 

“Ah then, d’ye tell me so 1 — an’ how will you do 
it, mister Bible-reader 

“ Remember your landlord is not a Papisb —he 
shall hear of your insolence before the sun goes 
down. I warn you I will do my utmost against 
you, and so will Mrs. Perkins, who is a daily visitor 
at the Hall !” 

“An’ to the devil I pitch youi tale-bearing an’ 
your warnin’ to boot. Mister Jenkinson! — I’m 
like the miller of Dee, my lad.” And raising 
liis voice he sang : 

“ I pay my rent on quarter-day 
My wife and I agree, 

I care for nobody — no, not i, 

Nor nobody cares for me.” 

llion snappi-^g his lingers to make his meaning 


life in OAl WAY. 13 

more clearly understood, he said : “ I don’t care 
that for Mr. Ousely, and Mrs. Perkins and Mr. 
J enkinson all put together.” Then putting in his 
head again, he cast a pitying glance over the long 
lines of miserable, hungry-looking little faces, aiic-' 
then at their comfortable though coarse clothing : 
“ May the Lord look down on you all, tliis blessed 
day — poor, desolate cratures that you are — most 
of you without father or mother — better for you, 
a thousand times, poor sorrowful things, that you 
were lyin’ under the turf with them that own’d 
you, than to be robbed of the religion that would 
bring you to heaven ! — och ! och ! but it’s the sor- 
rowful sight,” said poor Phil, wiping away a tear 
that would find its way to his cheek, “it makes 
my heart black an’ sore to see so many of you 
gathered in there that ought to be Catholics — the 
Lord pity you for poor children !” 

“Be off instantly,” said Jenkinson, “or I’ll 
horse-whip you!” 

“An’ if you’d only try it,” retorted Phil, “you’d 
fuid that two could play at that game. Now mind 
what I tell you. my honest man — I beg your 
pardon for calling you out of your name 1 Jist 
let these children alone — that’s my advice to you 
■ — you know very well that I’m a man of ray 
word^ an’ I promise you if ever you lay hold of 
them again, when you get them out alone, as sure 
as anything I’ll take you neck and heels, and put 


NEW LIGHTS, OR, 


^4 

j^ou ill the first bog-hole I meet. Now that’s my 
parting word to you — good mornin’, ma’am,” 
bowing very low to Mrs. Perkins, “ when you’re 
makin’ your report up at the Hall, will you jist 
say for me that you’re all runnin’ a wild-goose 
chase — heatin’ the wind, ma’am, an’ you know 
that’s mighty unprofitable work.” 

Phil hastened on after his aids, but they had 
got the start of him, and were already out of 
sight. He took a near-cut across the fields, and got 
home in time to introduce the children. Coming 
up panting and blowing just as they got to the 
door, he began to holla at the top of his voice, 
“ Now, Nanny ! — now, Katty Boyce ! — what did I 
tell you — eh “I” At the first sound of his voice, 
accompanied by the loud laughter of Patsey and 
Brian, out ran Nanny, (her knitting in her hand,) 
Katty Boyce, and Pincher, the big watch-dog — 
'the latter quite loud in his gratulation. 

“ Now, Katty !” repeated Phil, unbuttoning his 
coat, and shaking it back from off his heated 
chest, “ there they are, my woman ! safe an’ sound 
for you.” 

“ The Lord bless you, sir !” said Katty. “ But 
where did you find them at all, at all — the ramblin’ 
little villains 

“Just where I elxpected to find them — there 
abroad in Jenkinson’s school .” 

“Well! what took them there?” cried 


LIFE IN 6 ALWAT. 


41 


Nanny — “ I’m sure they didn’t go in of them- 
selves.” 

Katty was running at the children with uplifted 
hand, and the boys began to blubber, but Phil 
interposed his substantial person between them 
and their angry parent. “ There’s no use in 
heatin’ them, Katty !” said he, “they’re too young 
to know one school from another — at least a bad 
one from a good one. Just let us ask them quietly 
how they came to go there, instead of cornin’ 
back with their books, for as Nanny says, they 
never went in of themselves, as the place was 
strange to them. Let us all go in first.” 

Having got into the house, Phil seated himself 
with a most magisterial air, and the others stood 
around in anxious expectation, Katty especially. 
“ Come here now. Jemmy !” he said to the eldest, 
“ and tell me who it w'as that asked you to go into 
that school-house.” 

“It was the big lady, sir,” answered the boy, 
still sobbing with fear. 

“That’s Mistress Perkins,” said Phil — nodding 
to the women. “ Well ! and where did you meet 
her f ’ 

“ Jist at the cross-roads, sir, as we were turnin’ 
down to our own house.” 

“ An’ what did she say to you ? — do:a’t be afraid, 
new — speak up like a man.” 

“She — she — she asked us, sir, was — was oui 

4 * 


NEW lights; or, 


12 

father livin’, an’ we said no, he wasn’t — an’ — an- 
then she asked ns about where mammy was, an’ if 
we weren’t hungry, an’ when we said no ! w'e 
weren’t hungry now^ for we got our breakfast ihu 
mornin’, she asked us where we were goin’, an’ 
when 1 said that w^e were goin’ Rome for our books 
to go to school, she said w^e w’ere very good boys, 
that she liked boys that went to school, an’ she 
said to never mind goin’ home for our books, for 
that she had very nice books for us — an’ says she, 
‘Til walk back with you myself, till I tell the master 
what good boys you are.’ ” 

“ An’ then she took you to Jenkinson’s school — 
ch, Jemmy — why didn’t you tell her, that it was 
to the priest’s school you were goin’— 

“ She didn’t ask us, sir, what school we were 
goin’ to, but when we went in, Terry here w^as 
afeard o’ the strange man that was there — him 
that thought to keep us from you, sir — but the big 
lady gave us both some nice sugar-stick, an’ tould 
us we mustn’t be afeard o’ the new teacher, for 
that he’d be very good to us, an’ show us how to 
read the purty picture books that she gave us. 
An’ sure we thought it was the school, sir, or 
we wmiildii’t go.” 

“So it w^as the school. Jemmy I” said Philj 
laughing, “ but not the school you are to go to — 
there’s more schools than one, my little man ! an' 


l^IFU IN GALWAY. 


Ai 

mind you never go near that school-house again — 
neither you nor Terry.” 

“No, sir !” said both boys, “ an’ sure yen’ll not 
let mammy bate us — sure you’ll not, sir 1” 

Being assured that they had nothing to fear, 
the children ran off, with light hearts and lighter 
heels, to play with the baby who was rolling about 
on the floor. Nanny sat with her hands clasped 
over her knees, and her eyes staring wide open. 
“ W ell ! the Lord be praised !” she cried at last, 
drawing a long breath, “if them Bible-readers 
arn’t the quarest people in the world wide. Now 
what good does it do them to be kidnappin’ the 
children this way — don’t they knew in their hearts 
that the Scripture never tould them to desave 
innocent children, an’ carry on as they’re doin’ in 
every way 

“Faith, misthress,” said Patsey, “if it does it 
can’t be God’s book, an’ the priest says it is, so 
I’m sure they don’t go by its biddin’ any way” — 

“ For all that they have it at their fingers’ ends” 
•—chimed in Katty — there’s not a thing they do, 
good, bad, or indifferent, but they’ll tell you, ‘it’s 
written in the Bible’ — inagh! but it’s a quare use 
to make o’ the word of God, to be hittin’ poor 
cratures like us with it, right an’ left. But thanks 
be to God,” she added, going back to her work, 
“ ihftnks be to God that the masther took the 
lio».-ble of gein’ after the children, or it’s what 


NEW lights; or 


M 

they might be goin’ there for many a Jay without 
me knowin’ what school they were at.’' 

“How did the Prodestan’ soup taste, Katty 
moonf' said Brian, winking at Phil. “They tell 
me it’s very nourishin’.” 

“ Behave yourself, now, Brian !” said Katty, 
and her pale face was instantly covered with 
blushes. “ If you want to know how it tastes you 
can go yourself an’ get some.” 

“ An’ how do you know but it’s what I’m 
thinkin’ of doin’ % I only want to know does it 
take much of it to fill one’s stomach” — casting a 
comical glance at his own— “ mine houlds a good 
deal, an’ I’m afeard they’d be expectin’ too much 
from me, if I wanted it filled. I suppose now, 
Katty, the more soup an’ bread a fellow wants, 
he has to go the fiirther agin Popery — as they call 
it. Now what do you think a tall, raw-boned lad 
like me might have to do, in case the hunger drove 
me over to the soup-house some fine mornin 1” 

“ God grant that you may never be brought to 
that, Brian, nor any one that I wfish well !” said 
Katty, in a tone of deep feeling. “ The Lord he 
knows their soup’s as bitter as gall to the most o’ 
them that takes it^ for every mouthful goes agin 
their conscience.” 

“ Go off to your work now, both of you !’ 
cried Nanny, in her bustling way, “an’ don’t b« 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


4S 


makin’ your game of poor Katty for what wasn’t 
her fault !” 

True for you, misthress !” said Patsey, as they 
both took up their caubeens — “it’s no laughin’ 
matter, aflher all, for it’s either to stay at home an’ 
die of hunger, or go to the Jumpers and sell one’s 
sowl — may the good God save everybody’s rearin’ 
from such a hard fate as that ! — come away, Brian 
— we’re losin’ our time, an’ we oughtn’t to take 
advantage of the master’s goodness to play on 
him ! — come away !” 

“ Here I am, my honey ! jist alongside o’ you — - 
bedad it’s the greatest pity in the world you 
weren’t a Jumper yourself — my sowl to goodness, 
Patsey ! but you have a great tongue in your head 
— why, man ! you’d be worth a mint o’ money to 
the Bible-men — agh ! if I could only preach such 
a sarmon, it’s not handlin’ the spade I’d be any 
way !” So saying he vaulted out through the 
door-way, making a grimace at Patsey behind hia 
bimk that set the others a laughing heartily. 


46 


NEW LI GHTS J OR, 


CHAPTER III. 

• Thy gates t pen wide to the poor and the straiiger— 

There smiles hospTtality hearty and free ” 

There was heavy sorrow in the 'house of Ber 
nard O’Daly when Cormac announced his inten 
tion of going to America. The girls thought, at 
first, that he spoke only in jest, and the old w'o- 
man, from her high-backed straw chair in the 
chimney-corner, loudly declared her incredulity. 

“ I’ll never believe it, Cormac,” cried his mo- 
ther, “ I’ll never believe that you’d go away an’ 
leave us in our hour of need, you that’s the great- 
est support we have; oh, no, Cormac, you’ll not. 
do that^ any way !” 

But when Cormac went over and sat down be- 
side her, and took her two thin, w^asted hands in 
his, and squeezed them hard, without utterino; 
a word, then the poor mother understood the 
mute eloquence of her son’s eyes, and she burst 
into a passionate flood of tears, and for some time 
refused all consolation. In vain did her daughters 
and her husband try to comfort her — she would 
only put them away with her hand, and cry all 
the more. 


LIFE IN GALTTAY. 


47 


Mother,” said Cormac, his own eyes testifying 
how deeply he sympathized with her sorrow — 
“ Mother, dear, you’ll ruin yourself if you go on 
in that \\ ay ; you know very well that I wouldn’t 
leave you on any account, if it were not that I 
hoped to benefit your condition by going.’ 

“ Agra gal !” sobbed his mother, “ you’ll never 
benefit mim that way, whatever you may do to the 
others ; I’ll not be long a trouble to you or them. 
The heart within me is dead and cold, an’ if you’ll 
only wait a little, Cormac, you’ll see your poor 
old mother laid decently in the grave, an’ then you 
can go — but don’t go till then, my son — don’t, 
dannaniachree! don’t, an’ God bless you !” 

Cormac knew not what to say ; his sisters were 
weeping around him, and little Eveleea had her 
arms twined lovingly around his neck, in wordless 
entreaty — he looked at his brothers, but their own 
hearts were heavy, and they had not a word to 
say. “ Father !” said the agitated son, “ will you 
not try to soothe and comfort my dear mother — 
oh ! father, dear, won’t you tell her how we must 
all starve if something be not done, and that 
speedily 

“I will, my son — I’ll do my best!” and the 
poor old man wiped his eyes, and tried as well as 
he could to curb his feelings. “ Now, Honora,” 
said he, laying his hand tenderly on hei.-i. 


48 NEW lights; or, 

they lay clasped on her knee, “ Now, II( nora, lis 
ten to me !” 

“ I am listenin’,” said she, without looking up. 

“ Don’t you know, astore machree ! that we’re 
going to be put out of our place — the old place 
that my father an’ my grandfather had before me 
— well, what are we to do then, Honora, dear ! if 
we havn’t something to look to for support? Jist 
think a minute, now, an’ call to mind how many of 
our neighbors that were well off a few years ago, 
are now either in the poor-house or beggin’ their 
bit, an’ some of them” — he involuntarily lowered 
his voice — “ some of them died of want an’ hun- 
ger — think of that, Honora ! your time or mine 
won’t be long either one way or the other, aroon ! 
but what’s to become of the children, Honora — 
them that we reared so tenderly, and were — ay, 
an’ are so proud of?” 

“ Och, Barney, Barney I” sobbed the heart- 
broken mother, clasping her hands wildly above 
her head — “isn’t it the black, black picture you’re 
Duttin’ before me ?” 

“ But still it’s the truth, Onny, dear ; now, you 
ee, if Cormac could only get away to America — 
he’s young, an’ strong, an’ active — an’ has the 
lamin’, too, thanks be to God ! an’ in a year, or 
at most two years, he’ll be able to send us wliat 
will rise us out o’ poverty — until then some cf the 
boys an’ gi.ls can go out to service — ” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


49 


This was worse and worse, for poor Honora had 
no small share of family pride. “ What’s that you 
say, Barney O’Daly *?” she said quickly, dashing 
away her tears ; “ sure there never w^as one ol 
our people on either sides, at sarvice since the 
memory of man. Tut, tut, man — you know that 
well enough, an’ where’s the use of talkin’ that 
way — ochwirra! sure I’d joyfully let them work 
the nails off their fingers at home with ourselves, 
sooner than that they’d be on the stranger’s floor, 
or any one have it to say to them — ” Another 
burst of crying followed, and then Bernard re- 
newed his attack ; after a little, ITonora became 
somewhat calmer, and then she suddenly asked her 
husband was there no way of keeping Cormac. 

“ None in the world, Onny, except we could get 
Mr. Ousely to do something for us — and that’s 
next to impossible.” 

“ It’s totally impossible, father,” said Cormac, 
•* for I tell you now candidly, that I have gone to 
him time after time, unknown to you, and even 
got Mrs. Ousely to reason cases with him, but all 
was of no use — you might as well think to drain 
Lough Corrib wfith a spoon, as to soften his heart.” 

“ I know that, my son — God help me, I know it 
well !” said his father, with a sigh ; “ many and 
many’s the time, since I came to poverty, I have 
stood with my hat in my hand among the poor 
cratures at the gate, waitin’ to get a word with 


NEW lights; or, 


. 60 

him as he’d be goin’ out or cornin’ in, an’ he’d 
snap at me as if I was a dog, an’ bid me get out of 
his way, an’ not be annoyin’ him, unless I had 
some money for him. Ochone ! ochone ! an’ 
you’d see the poor people about me how they’d 
grieve to see me trated that way, but sure they 
were all as badly off as myself, an’ dar’n’t speak 
a word for me.” 

A fresh burst of weeping followed the old man’s 
words, for his children were all shocked to hear 
how their beloved father had been obliged to hum- 
ble himself, and for their sakes, and all were think- 
ing of the time, but a few short years before, when 
Mr. O' Daly was a man of great influence with the 
landlord, and was wont to be ushered into the par- 
lor at Ousely Hall, when others of the tenants 
were left outside. Alas ! for the grievous change. 
The young men in particular were heart-struck, 
and their indignation knew no bounds. “ Ah !” 
muttered Daniel, between his teeth, “ will there 
ever come a time when these heartless tyrants shall 
be humbled 1" 

“ There will — be assured there will,” said Cor- 
mac ; “ God wmuld not be a just God — blessed be 
his holy name — if the haughty, the relentless land- 
lords of Ireland were not scourged, and with a rod 
of iron. Their time will come, Daniel — ^never fear !’' 

“ Why, mother, dear, you’ve got very quiet all 
of a sudden,” observed Eveleen, with the playful 


LIFE IN G tLW A.Y. ft] 

privilege of a petted child j are yov going to let 
Cormac go 

All eyes were now turned on the old woman, 
and sure enough there was a wondrous change in 
her manner and appearance. Not a tear was in 
her eye, and it was only the increased paleness on 
her furrowed cheek that told of the recent storm 
of feeling. “ No, Eveleen,” said she, patting the 
little girl’s head — it was a beautiful head, too, with 
its long fair tresses, “ No, Eveleen, I’ll not give 
my consent till I take some time to think the mat- 
ter over, an’ pray to God to direct us all for the 
best. An’, children, I put it on you all to pray 
this night with tliat intention. We’ll say no more 
about it now.” 

And no more was then said on the subject, but 
there was something in the old woman’s manner 
that excited the attention of the whole family, and 
very often during the evening the young people 
talked it over. “ I’ll lay a wager,” said Daniel to 
his younger brother, Owen, as they strolled out 
together through the green fields, and down by the 
banks of the gurgling rivulet, “ I’ll lay a wager 
that mother has something in her head, for if she 
hadn’t, she’d never get so calm all in a minute. I 
wish we could know what she’s up to.” 

“ Well, I’d give a trifle to know myself,” said 
Owen, who was a fine, well-grown lad of sixteen, 
“ but there's no great use in puzzling our brains 


52 


NEW lights; or, 


about it — who’s that coming up the road there ?-• 
Why, I declare, Dan, it’s old granny Mulligan- 
hurra ! let us go to meet her.” 

Off ran the two lads, bounding across ditches and 
hedges like young antelopes, till, jumping the last 
fence, they alighted on the high way, right in front 
of the in:lividual in question, who wa-s a little old 
woman not much more than four feet high, with a 
keen shrewd eye, and a rather intelligent cast of 
countenancci She was clad in an old red cloak, 
and a dark-colored gown of that home-made stuff 
known amongst the Irish peasantry as dmgget. 
On her shoulders she carried a large bag, while a 
smaller one hung from her apron-string — she had 
an apron of coarse blue linen. Her feet were 
cased in good strong shoes, and she stumped along 
supported by a stout oaken cudgel. There w*as 
altogether a look of cleanliness and of self-respect 
about the old woman, with a sort of masculine in- 
dependence in her air and bearing. Granny Mul- 
ligan was the type of a class now fast disappear- 
ing — I might almost say, gone from amongst the 
Irish people — she was a beggar-w^oman of old stand- 
ing and high consideration in the district over 
which her rambles extended. 

“Ilillo! granny,” cried Daniel, as he reached 
her side, panting and breathless ; “ so you’ve got 
back again. Why, we were beginning to be afraid 
that you’d c< me no more.” 


LIFE IN GALWAT. 


63 


“Well, you see I did, Daniel — and Dwen, too— 
fnusha ! give me the fist, boys ; an’ how’s every 
inch of you — an’ how’s all at home 

“ All well — only mother’s just the same way — 
but then she’s no worse,” 

“ God be praised, dear, God be praised !” 

“ Take care, granny, take care !” cried Owen, 
laughing as he spoke, “ it’s not the fashion now to 
speak that way,” 

“ What way, agroh inquired the beggar-wo- 
man. 

“ Why, to be praising or thanking God, or the 
like — if the Jumpers hear you at it they’ll call you 
all sorts of hard names,” 

“ Oh ! the curse o’ the crows on them for Jump- 
ers !” cried granny Mulligan ; “ I’m blest an’ hap- 
py, boys, but my heart’s broke with them,” 

“ Why, how is that, granny and one winked 
at the other, having heard the old woman’s griev- 
ance at least a score of times — “ What’s wrong 
now 

“ What’s wrong, is it ? There, Owen, I see you 
want to relieve poor granny — God mark you with 
grace, child ; many’s the time you carried the bag 
for me before now ! — well ! Dan, avkJc! you 
asked me what was wrong now, an’ I tell you all’s 
wrong wdth us poor travelin’ cratures. There 
never was luck or grace in the counthry since them 

Bible-readers got their grip on it. People will b« 
6 * 


H 


NEW lights; or, 


talkin’ about the famine, an’ the famine, but i 
tell you this, Daniel O’Daly, them black-faced 
fellows with their smooth tongues an’ their bundle 
o’ books undher their oxther, an’ the whites o’ their 
eyes turned up like a duck in thundher — it’s them 
hat’s the rale curse o’ the counthry ! ay, indeed ! 
worse than the famine fifty times over.” 

“ Tut, tut, granny, you don’t say so — why, what 
harm do they do you or the like of you, so long as 
they don’t get you to turn 

“ What harm, inagh ! why, they do us this 
hsrm,” said granny, warmly, “ that they close the 
hearts o’ the people agin us, telliii’ them that it’s 
in the poor-house we ought to be, an’ that it’s not 
good to be encouragin’ us in idleness — an’ that 
we’re a burthen on the counthry, an’ all sich 
things — oh, then! oh, then! — God grant me pa- 
tience — was there ever sich times in Ireland as the 
good ould times when there was neither poor-houses 
nor Jumpers, nor Bible-readers — an’ w^hen the 
poor travelin’ cratures had a welcome in ever^^ 
house, an’ a seat at every fire-side, an’ the best bit 
an’ sup that was goin’ ! — ochone ! ochone ! there 
was no sich thing as famine or starvation in them 
days — an’ what’s more, there wouldn’t be any now 
if it wasn’t for the poor-houses, an’ the Jumpers — - 
the hard-hearted haythens, that’s puttin’ the ould 
warm charity out of the people’s hearts, an’ bring, 
in’ down the black curse on the counthry !” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


“ W ell, 1 do believe that you’re saying the 
trutli, granny 1” said Daniel. “ Jesting aside, 
there seems to be a cui’se resting on the country 
ever since these scheming vagabonds settled in it 
— but here we are, just at the house, granny. I’ve 
& favor to ask of you, before we go in.” 

“ Ah, then, what is it, ma houchal hawn 

“ Cormao is trying to get my mother’s consent 
to go to America, and my father and the priest 
thinks that both he and I ought to go, but my poor 
mother doesn’t know yet that there’s any one but 
Cormao in the notion of it — now, mind, you must 
put in a good word for both of us.” 

“Well, it’s like I will, Dan, agrah; for when 
Father O’Driscoll an’ your father has it made up 
atween them, it must be for the best, an’ we must 
get your mother brought roun’ one way or an- 
other — though, God pity her, it’ll go hard with 
her — but then, what must be must be ! Husht, 
now, boys,” there was no one speaking but her- 
self — “ husht ! not a word now !” so in she 
marched with the step of one who felt herself at 
home. 

“ God save all here !” said granny. 

“ God save you kindly, honest woman !” replied 
Bernard, who was smoking his pipe in the corner. 

“ ’Deed, an’ you used to know me better than 
that, Bernard,” said the old woman, throwing back 
he: hood. 


56 


NEW Lianrs; on, 


‘^'Why, bless my soul, granny Mulligan, is this 
yDU?” cried Bernard, coming forward with out- 
Btretched hand. “ Honora ! Kathleen ! Bridget ! 
where are you all gone to — sure here’s granny 
Mulligan !” Out ran the girls from an inner room, 
»nd their mother was not long behind. Eveleea 
caught the old woman round the neck, and kissed 
her over and over, saying — “ Granny, dear ! wha^ 
in the world kept you so long away from us — why, 
I didn’t hear a story this ever so long, for nobody 
tells me any when you are away !” 

Before the greetings were all exchanged, Owen 
and Daniel came in, the former setting down the 
bag in a corner with a great swing. “ An’ why 
don’t you welcome me 1” said he with a merry 
laugh, “ sure it’s me that carries the bag, don’t you 
see, so granny an’ myself ’s in partnership !” 

“ Get out, you young scape-grace !” said his 
mother, “ who’d be for throwin’ aw'ay a w^elcome 
on the likes o’ you !” and her dim eye was for a 
moment brightened, as it rested with maternal 
pride on the handsome^ roguish countenance of the 
light-hearted boy. 

“Come an’ sit down here beside me, aroonf” 
said Honora, “ till we have a little shanachusy 

“ ’Deed an’ I will, Mrs. O’Daly, an’ glad to sit 
down too, for I ve walked a good six miles since 
mornin’. Here, girls, I see you’re waitin’ for my 
duds — stop, Bridget* aroon^ I’ll give them tj 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


51 


Eveleeii — there now, Eveleen dear, put away 
granny’s red cloak — an’ there’s my meal -bag, 
Kathleen — hang it up there in its ould place beside 
the salt-box !” When all was done as she desired, 
and granny comfortably settled beside Mrs. O’ 
Duly, with Eveleen on a little creepy at her side, 
there were a thousand questions asked and answer- 
ed, and many an exclamation of pity and of 
wonder escaped the listeners, as the old woman 
detailed how this family had been put out of their 
land, and were living under a shed by the way-side, 
and how that other had to go to the poor-house — 
how this one had died of starvation, and the other 
was “lyin’ in the fever.” But ever and anon 
granny Mulligan’s eyes wandered over the kitchen 
and its “ plenishing,” and in the midst of her narra- 
tion, a sigh would come, for there was indeed “ a 


change on all things.” In vain did she look for the 
flitches of bacon and goodly hams, and smoked 
heads, which in other days hung suspended from 
the smoke-blackened rafters — the nicely-cleaned 
milk-vessels were ranged along under “ the dresser,” 
but granny was sorry to see so many of them, for 
it showed that there was now no other use for them 
— the cows that used to fill them were all gone — ■ 
sold to make up the rent, and all in vain — the rent 
wasn’t paid, nor couldn’t be paid, as granny 
Mulligan well knew. 

“ But where’s Cormac V said the beggar-woman, 


18 


NEW lights; or, 


I’m thinkin’ long to see him ; — poor fellow ! thej 
tell me he’s in a notion of goin’ to America.” 

The words were scarcely uttered, when Cormaa 
himself lifted the latch and walked in, his face 
flushed, and his eyes sparkling, like one who had 
been recently engaged in some angry contest. 

“ Speak of the devil and he’ll appear,” said 
Kathleen. “ I believe if you’d spoken sooner, 
granny, Cormac would have come sooner. See 
who’s here, Cormac !” 

The young man no sooner saw granny than the 
angry frown was gone, and his face lit up with a 
cheerful smile. Going over to her, he took hold 
of her proffered hand and shook it warmly. 
“ You’re welcome back, granny,” said he, “ and 
I’m sorry we have not as good a w^ay for you as 
we used to have — times are changed with us, 
granny Mulligan ! even since you were here half 
a year ago. Still I’m giad to see you, granny — 
indeed I am. Where did you leave your daughter 
Aileen, or how is she *?” 

“ She’s 'well, I hope,” said the old woman with 
& sudden change of countenance ; “ I trust in God 
she’s well, for she’s gone — gone, Cormac; that 
cough that she had so long, turned into a decline, 
an’ she’s lyin’ below in Tullyallen church-yard — ” 

“ What? you don’t mean to say that she’s dead 
cried Cormac and Kathleen in a breath. 

“ Ay indeed do I, children !” said granny, tha 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


b$ 


big tears coursing d3\^Ti her wrinkled cheek — “ she 
died three months ago, an’ I had hard work to get 
a coffin for her — only for Father Dempsey, the 
priest that’s there, I couldn’t a managed it, hut he 
got a coffin himself, may the Lord pour down 
blessin’s upon him, an’ so I put my fair-haired 
colleen into it, an’ a dacent man that’s there — Paddy 
O’Carolan by name — put it across his horse’s back, 
an’ him an’ his son an’ myself went with it, — an’ 
he dug the grave himself for me — an’ between us 
three we lifted poor Aileen into the grave, an’ poor 
granny Mulligan was left all alone, without friend 
or fellow in the whole wide world !” Putting her 
blue apron up to her eyes, she wept for some time 
unrestrainedly, for all felt that her grief was sacred, 
but when she began to wipe her eyes and clear her 
voice, then every one offered some kindly word of 
comfort, and the old woman, by a strong and 
characteristic effort, drove her grief back into her 
desolate heart, and asked Cormac what was the 
matter with him when he came in. 

“ Ay, indeed, Cormac,” said his father, “ there 
must have been something wrong, for you looked 
wild and quare somehow.” His mother opened 
her eyes wide, and looked intently at her son, and 
his brothers and sisters crowded around in eager 
expectation. 

“ It was on.y a trifle after all,” said Cormac, with a 
smile, “ so you needn’t look at me as though I had 


60 


NEW lights; or, 


seven heads on me. I was just turning out ci 
Phil Maguire’s lane, when who should come up but 
Andrew McGiMigan, the Bible-reader, with a bundle 
of tracts under his arm. I nodded and bade him 
‘ good evening and was passing on, but well bo* 
comes Andrew, he pulls out a tract and offers it to 
me. I asked him what it ’was, pretending I didn’t 
know. ‘ It is a mouthful of food for the famishing,’ 
said Andrew, ‘ take and eat, and be filled.’ 
‘ Thank you very much,’ said I, ‘ but I really am 
not one of the famishing — so you must excuse me !” 
and again I would have passed him, but he was not 
to be so easily shook off. ‘ Young man !’ said he, 
in a very solemn voice, ‘ you are not sensible ol 
your wants, and they are, therefore, the more 
grievous. Take what I offer you — ^read — and you 
will then see how blind and ignorant you are.’ 
‘ You are certainly very polite,’ said I, * to say the 
least of it, and you are also very presumptuous, 
my good sir, to suppose that you can enlighten me 
— as for your tract there, I might, to oblige you, 
take it home to light my father’s pipe, or even 
dispose of it more quickly, by tearing it in pieces 
and flinging it to the winds, did I not know that 
every tract you get rid of is a victory gained. 
You will oblige me by taking your w'ay in peace 
as I shall take mine. I want no conversation with 
you.’ ‘ You are very uncivil,’ quoth Andrew, ‘yea, 
young man, you are puffec up with the pri ie and 


LII E IN GALWAY. 


61 


uncharitableness of your religion — oh 1’ and Ai drew 
groaned piteously, ‘ oh ! what a hideous spirit doth 
abide in those who follow the great delusion’ — ‘ I’ll 
just tell you what it is, my good fellow,’ said I, 
breaking in rather suddenly on his fine soliloquy, 
‘ if you don’t hold your peace, or otherwise keep a 
civil tongue in your head. I’ll send you headlong 
into the drain — how dare you speak in that way 
to one who knows both yourself and your sham 
religion so well as I do'?’ ‘Even so,’ said Andrew, 
moving a step or two away, ‘ even so were the 
apostles of old persecuted — ay, verily, and the 
prophets — oh ! Eome ! Rome ! thou that dost per- 
secute and kill — ’ 

“ ‘ Frogs and grasshoppers !’ cried Brian Han- 
ratty, coming up behind, and giving the poor 
Bible-reader such a dig in the ribs with the point 
of his stick, that he roared out ‘Murder ! murder !’ 
— ‘ oh ! the devil murder you,’ said Brian, ‘ it’s a 
thousand pities you werenH murdered — the counthry 
’d be well rid of the whole jing-bang of you. I 
wish to my soul that the ould boy who sent you 
in among us, wmuld jist come quietly some fine 
night, an’ take you back to himself.’ For me, 1 
did nothing but laugh heartily, but Andrew began 
to look very black at Brian. ‘ Oh ! you bloodthirsty 
villain !’ said he, rubbing his side — ‘ I’ll — I’ll’— 
‘ Do you want another touch, Andrew !’ said Brian, 
eutting a caper with his shillelagh — ‘by the law? 


62 


NEW lights; or 


man, I’ll tire you out before I lave you. Sure 
you were wantin’ to convert this dacent boy, 
Cormac O’Daly — now why don’t you thry your 
hand on me — eh, Andrew f ‘I’ll leave you to 
yourselves, unhappy sons of perdition,’ said the 
Bible-reader, preparing to cross a ditch into the 
fields. ‘Won’t you lave us a lock of your hair, 
Andy dear,’ cried Brian, ‘jist to poison the rats'? — 
or a tract.’ But Andrew was in too great a hurry 
to get his lank carcase out of the way of danger, 
so he merely turned his vinegar face, and looked 
daggers at myself and Brian — the latter laughed 
and made a grab at the bundle of tracts — the 
Bible-reader, who was then climbing the ditch — 
instinctively let go his hold, for the purpose of 
protecting the tracts — when his foot slipped, and 
down he came souse into the water, where he lay 
sprawling on the broad of his back, and roaring 
like an elephant. By this time there were several 
persons collected, and the unfortunate , Scripture- 
reader was calling on one and another to help him 
out, but no one was in any great hurry, for they 
all enjoyed the fun. ‘ Can’t you read us a chapter, 
Andy honey?’ said one — ‘Won’t .you give me a 
tract, dear ?’ says another — ‘ You must wait till 
he dries them, then,’ says another ; ‘ don’t you see 
•they’re swimmin’ there along side of him’ — ‘ Come, 
Dome, boys !’ says Brian, ‘ let us take him out any 
way — divil an’ all as he is, we can't lave him iv 


LIFE IN GALIfAY. 


too long W e then pulled the shivering wretch 
out, and set him on his feet, Brian asking him very 
politely how he felt after his cold bath. ‘Villain*’ 
said the crest-fallen champion of Bible religion, ag 
he shook his dripping garments, and looked ruefully 
down at his scattered tracts, now floating away on 
the stream, ‘ villain !’ shaking his fist at Brian, ‘ I’ll 
make you rue this.’ ‘ Go to the d — 1 an’ shake 
yourself, my fine fellow !’ said Brian very coolly ; 
* wasn’t it your own fault from beginnin’ to end — 
what business had you forcin’ your bit of a tract, 
an’ your hypocritical discoorse on them that could 
tache you and your betthers 1 Be off with you 
now, an’ chaw your cud on the lesson you’ve got — 
maybe it’ll be of some sarvice to you !’ With 
that the Bible-read er turned off into Billy Wallace’s 
meadow, and made for the house, while the boys 
stood on the road and cheered him till he got in 
out of their sight. So, after we had enjoyed a 
good laugh at Andrew’s expense, I bid them all 
good night, and came off home, little thinking that 
I’d find granny Mulligan here before me.” 

Young and old were much amused by Cormac’s 
account of McGilligan’s discomfiture, and one and 
all declared that it was “ good for him.” Eveleen 
alone demurred — “ not but I’d be glad to see him 
getting the worst of it,” said she, “for many a 
day he teased Owen and myself to take tracts or 
Testaments from him when we'd be going to school, 


NEW lights; or 


u 

ay ! and call us bad names when we wouldn’t take 
them, but then I’d be sorry to see any one falling 
into ths water that way — oh dear !” and Eveleen 
shivered as though she felt the cold in her own 
proper person. 

“ That is just like you, my gentle Eveleen I’* 
said Cormac, as he drew the little girl to his side. 
“ But you must remember, child ! that it wasn’t 
my fault nor Brian’s neither — he merely missed 
his foot — trying to save his precious burden from 
a ducking, he got one himself.” 

“ Sorra mend him !” said granny. “ If he had 
been ducked on purpose it’s what he’d desarve. 
I’m just thinkin’ about a thing that happened down 
at Tully alien while I was there, an ’ as I know 
you’re all fond of stories, especially Eveleen here, 
I’ll just tell it to you to pass the time.” 

Eveleen clapped her hands and cried out, Oh a 
story ! a story ! dear, good granny, do tell us a 
story !” 

“ Better have supper first, Eveleen !” observed. 
Kathleen; “move round there, boys, till Bridget 
puts in the table — ^here’s the porridge ready. 
Granny will be in a better way of telling the story 
when she has had something to eat and drink.” 

“ That you may never have worse news for ua, 
Kauth !” cried Daniel, as he and Owen pushed 
back their chairs to make way for the table. 

“We havn’t many dainties to offer,” observed 


LIFE IN GAl WAT. 


66 


flonora, as her daughters dished the homely meal 
— “ but, sit over, granny ! an’ take some supper !” 
A large bowl of milk was placed before the guest, 
but granny’s keen eye soon saw that the liquid in 
the tin ‘porringers’ of the others was not all 
milk, being diluted with water to make it go the 
farther. Bridget noticed the look with which 
granny followed her motions as she prepared the 
beverage, and a smile dimpled her rosy cheek as 
she remarked : “We havn’t so many cows, granny, 
as we used to have — the seven are reduced to owe.” 
“Well! God’s will be done, Bridget!” said the 
old woman with a heavy sigh. “More was the 
pity that your store ’ud ever be less ! But never 
mind, ar/rahf never mind — there’s a good time 
cornin’.” 

Eveleen kept watching the progress of the meal 
with great impatience, herself was the first to push 
back her seat, and when the others had nearly all 
followed her example, she w'as somewhat indignant 
to see that Owen and Daniel were still masticating. 
“Why, then, Fm sure you might be done, now,” 
she said to them, “ for I do I elieve you \vere first 
at the table. Can’t you swallow down quickly, 
till we get the table away — now if you don’t 
make haste, we’ll not have the story to-night, for 
granny will want to go to bed soon.” 

“Here, then, girls,” said Daniel, the last to rise, 
“come along and take away the table — pool 


16 


NEW lights; or, 


Eveleen must have the story.” So the table was 
removed, a fresh fire made, and the hearth swept 
nicely up with the heather broom that stood in 
the corner, then the whole family gathered around 
—Eveleen taking her usual station at granny’s 
nee, and the old woman began her narrative, 
“About two months agone,” said she, “there 
was one o’ the paupers — as they call them, with 
their new-fashioned names — took sick in the poor 
house below at Tullyallen, an’ she got so bad all 
of a suddent, that the nurse sent off for the priest. 
Well! you see, the poor crature couldn’t spake a 
word, an’ one o’ the officers of the house — to be 
sure ! took it upon himself to send off another 
messenger for the ministher, bekase he said that the 
woman was entered on the books as a Prodestan’. 
Well ! sure enough but the ministher got in first, 
an’ he was just a goin’ to kneel down an’ pray — 
sure that’s all the man could do — when the door 
opens, an’ who walks in but the priest, as tall an’ 
as straight as a may-pole, my jewel 1 So he went 
over, an’ took hould o’ the woman’s hand jist to feel 
her pulse, before he’d do anything, an’ up starts 
the ministher to his feet : ‘ what brings you here V 
Bays he, quite sharp and crusty. ‘ My business 1’ 
Bays his reverence; ‘what brings you herel’ 
I was sent for, sir,’ says the ministher. ‘ And so 
was I,’ says the priest back again to him. ‘ Isn’t 
this woman a Protestant, my good girl V says the 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


vt 

mirJsthor, turnin’ rcund to the nurse that was in it. 
* I don’t think she is, sir,’ says the nurse, ‘ for I 
got a pair o’ beads in her pocket.’ ‘ Well ! at any 
rate,’ says the ministher, says he, ‘ I was sent for, 
an’ I’ll do my duty.’ ‘ An that’s not much,’ says 
the priest, with a kind of a smile ; ‘ but the best 
way to settle the dispute is to ask the woman 
herself — ^perhaps she can speak that much.’ So he 
stoops down to ask the sick woman if she wasn’t a 
Catholic, an’ well becomes the ministher, didn’t he 
give him a pounce right on the back o’ the neck 
that bobbed his head down on the woman’s breast.” 

“ Oh, the villain I” cried Bernard. “ The bad, 
bad man !” said Eveleen, “ but what did the priest 
do then ?” 

“ What did he do f ’ said granny, with a smile, 
“ why, he jist got up, an’ turn’d on the ministher, 
an’ gives him one box of his big fist that sent him 
spinnin’ like a top across the room.” 

“ My hundred blessings on him !” said Honora ; 
“ that was just the way to sarve the villain — ” 

“Yes,” observed Cormac, “for argument is 
thrown away on a lad like that — ^but what followed, 
granny ? I hope the priest kept his ground beside 
the sick bed.” 

“ Indeed then he did, Cormac, an’ he took the 
ministher coolly an’ quietly an’ put him outside 
the door, when he was goin’ on talkin’ an’ makin’ 
noise — then his reverence gave the rites o’ the 


63 


NEW lights; or 


xjhurch to the poor woman, an’ went his way home. 
Well, what would you have of it, my dears! but 
the ministher summonsed the priest for an assault, 
an’, bedad, when the priest seen that, he thought 
he wouldn’t let it all go for nothing — an’ didn’t he 
summons the other ; an’ sure enough it was the 
ministher gave the first assault. Well, bedad, the 
day came, an’ aw'ay goes them all to the coort- 
house, an’ there was a good many brought there 
for evidence, but amongst the rest was the nurse, 
a fine, stout, rattlin’ girl as you’d see in a day’s 
walkin’. Well, she w'ent up on the table, to bo 
sure, to give her evidence, an’ who should be 
standin’ beside her but the crier of the court, a 
little, weeny bit of a man, with a lame leg, an’ an 
old withered face on him that wasn’t a bit bigger 
than the palm o’ my hand. The magistrate began 
tO put questions to the girl, an’, of coorse, she an- 
swered them ; an’ at last, they ax’d her how did 
the ministher hit the priest. ‘ Why,’ says she, ‘ ho 
jist took him by the back o’ the neck, this way, 
your honor,’ an’ she catches the little man along 
side of her by the collar o’ the coat, ‘ an’ he gives 
him a push this-a-way, your honor,’ an’ she gives 
the poor crier sich another drive that dowui ho 
went headforemost among the people outside, an 
with that there was sich a shout of a laugh all ovef 
the 2oort-house that you' I hear it a mile off, an’ 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


69 


indeed, they say there wasn’t one in it, magisthrate 
or else, that you couldn’t tie with a sthraw.” 

Granny could scarcely get her story finished, 
with the roars of laughter that it drew forth. 
Honora herself had to press her hands on her 
sides, and beg of granny to leave off, for she 
couldn’t stand it any longer, 

“ It’s all done now, dear,” said the beggar-wo- 
man, with imperturbable gravity — “ that’s the 
whole of it.” 

“ But, granny,” cried Daniel, as soon as he could 
speak from laughing, ‘‘ do you think did she in- 
tend to knock down the little man ?” 

“No more than you did, ma houckal ! that never 
seen him. No, no, she wasn’t mindin’ what she 
was doin’ at all, but jist catch’d a hould of him as 
he was near her, to show the magisthrates how it 
happened, and when she gave him the shake, you 
see, her arm was so sthrong, an’ him so weak an’ 
donsy, that he couldn’t keep his feet. Oh, bedad, 
she didn’t mane it at all, for she w^as sorry enough 
when she found the little man gone — but, you 
know, it couldn’t be helped then.” 

“Well, really, that’s a good story,” said Cor- 
mac, “ the best I’ve heard for many a day — what 
do you think, Eveleen ?” 

^ It’s very funny,” said Eveleen, “ and I couldn’t 
help laughing at it, but I hope the poor little fellow 
wasn’t hurt — eh, granny 


70 


NEW lights; or, 


“ Oh, not much’ I b’lieve — only a good deal 
frightened. But, now, I think it’s bed-time, and I 
was up at day-light this mornin.” This was the 
signal for a general move; so the night-prayer 4 
were said, and all went to seek repose^ 



J 


LITK IK GALWAY 


VI 


CHAPTER IV. 


When man has shut the d oor unkind 
On pity, earth's divines t guest, 

The wand’rer never fails to find 
A sweet abode in woman’s breast. — CARCANrr. 

The da'VNTi was just beginning to shed its crimson 
light over the eastern hills, and the earth was still 
Eilent, when the door of Bernard O’Daly’s house 
was softly opened, and two female figures issued 
forth, carefully wrapped up in large gray cloaks. 
One was old, or at least infirm, for she leaned 
heavily on the arm of her companion, whose light 
step and slender proportions were those of the 
spring-time of life, but the faces of both were par- 
tially concealed by the hoods of their cloaks. 
We may as well anticipate our reader’s suspicions, 
and announce that these were Honora O’Daly and 
her daughter Bridget. But why were they abroad 
so early, and evidently unknown to the other 
inmates of the house 1 Let us follow them on 
their way and we shall see. Scarcely a word was 
said by either, as they followed the upward course 
of the rivulet for about a mile, and then 1 urned off 
through the fields till they came out on the high-road 
In front of a handsome gateway of cut stone, with 




NEW LIGHTS, OR, 


a small but beautiful lodge at one side within, and 
a smooth, well-kept avenue, with its fringes of 
green, winding far and away between rows of tall 
sycamores, intermingled with beach and ash. Long 
did our two lone wayfarers wait outside the gate 
before any one was stirring, but at length the door 
of the gate-house opened, and a tall, lazy-looking 
fellow made his appearance, stretching and yawn- 
ing as though he had not slept enough. He w\as 
moving away in another direction, around the end 
of the lodge, w'hen Bridget called to him through 
;he gate, “ Larry, I say, Larry !” 

“ Who’s that callin’ me 1” said Larry, coming 
towards the gate. 

“ It’s me, Larry — Bridget O’Daly. My mother’s 
here too, so make haste and let us in.” 

“ Oh indeed an’ I will then,” said Larry, as he 
leisurely took down the huge key from a nail 
inside the lodge-door, and proceeded to open the 
gate. “ But w^hat in the world wide brought ye 
out so early this mornin’ 1 — why myself ’ud 
sleep this hour if it wasn’t that Fd be afeard o’ the 
masther cornin’ down !” 

“ Larry !” said Honora, speaking now for the 
first time, “ I w^ant to see Mr. Ousely, an’ as I know 
he’s a very early man, I thought I’d come before 
there would be anybody else here, or that he’d be 
goin’ out some place for the day.” 

“Well! I don’t know,” said Larry musingly 


LIFE IN GALWAT. 


** hft’l] not be plased at me for lettin’ any one in so 
early about business* — of cporse, it’s on business 
ye’re cornin’, Mrs. O’Daly and he looked 
eearchingly under the hood, for it still shaded her 
face. 

“Why — yes— ‘it’s on a little business of iny 
own that'I wanted to see him.” 

“ Humph !” says Larry, putting his finger to his 
nose, “ Humph ! I know — well ! now, Mrs. O’ 
Daly, I’ll just ax you one question before you go 
to thry your fortune — will you be willin’ to pass 
yourself off as if you were thinkin’ of turnin’ — 
tell me that now 

“ Larry Colgan ! I hope you don’t mane to insult 
me — I didn’t expect it from you.” ' 

“ No offence, ma’am, no offence — I’d be long 
sorry to offend you — ^but answer me the question 
I put to you.” 

“ W ell ! if I must answer such a foolish ques. 
tion, I say ‘ No I’ not for all Mr. Ousely’s worth !” 

“Very good — that’s just what I thought — 'well, 
then, ma’am, you may as well turn straight back, 
for you’ll only make matters worse if you go» 
Take a friend’s advice an’ go home.” 

“ V^hy, Larry, you’re makin’ the devil blacker 
than he is — sure if the master was so inveterate 
as that against us, he wouldn’t have you here.” 

“ An’ if he has me here,” retorted Larry with 
a chuckling laugh, “ it’s bekase he thinks that I’m 

7 


74 


NEW I IGHTS; OR, 


goiii’ to turn — he has me on the hook, ma’am, for 
the last two years — ever since he got so black 
agin Catholics, by manes of the Bible-readers — 
bad manners to them — ’deed he has, ma’am, but 
somehow he never gets me a-shore, for t’m able 
enough for him one way or another. The only 
thing is that I don’t get goin’ to chapel, but then 
when I don’t go anywhere else, I have hopes that 
Him above won’t be hard on a poor fellow that 
has a wife an’ five little ones to keep the life in.” 

Honora shook her head. ‘^Take care of that, 
Larry, I’m afeard that such excuses as them won’t 
save us — but, after all you tell me. I’ll venture up 
when I’ve come so far — an’ och ! och ! but it’s the 
heavy thrial that’s before me. Is the mistress 
likely to be seen at this hour 

“ Or Miss Eleanor 7” said Bridget. 

“ W ell ! I don’t know that you’ll see either of 
them — though you might, perhaps — for Miss 
Eleanor is an early riser, an’ God bless her every 
day she does rise — there ’ud be no livin’ here of 
late days only for her.” 

“ Good bye, then, Larry, good bye,” said 
Bridget, “ till we see you again.” 

“ Mind what I tould you, now !” said Larry, 
calling after them. “ You’ll say I’m a prophet, I’m 
Ihinkin’, before you’re either of you much oulder.” 

As the mother and daughter wound their way 
along the nicely-sanded walk, they discoursed ia 


LIFE IN UALWAY. 


jow wlispers, looking cautiously arouiid to see that 
tio one heard them. As they approached the house, 
Ilonora’s heart sank lower and lower, and it re- 
quired all Bridget’s strength to support her. 
“ Och ! Bridget ! Bridget !” said she, as the 
fine old mansion stood full before them, its 
numerous windows reflecting the rays of the rising 
sun, “ havn’t they heaven on earth that live in such* 
houses as that, with such a place as this all round 
about them !” and she cast her heavy eyes around 
on the grand old oaks, and the soft verdure of the 
sloping lawn, and the rustic seats placed here and 
there under the shade of spreading branches. 
“ Not that I ’d covet to live in such a grand place,” 
she added, “ but only that I’d. be able to keep my 
children all about me, an’ to make my soul* in 
peace.” 

“ And still they have their own troubles, mother 
— these grand quality — just as well as we have— 
but you see there’s no one a-stir yet — will you sit 
down, mother dear, on one of those seats — I know 
you’re not able for such a walk as this !” 

“ I know that, dear, but you see how God gives 
strength to the poor, weak creature in the time ot 
necessity. We’ll jist sit down on the steps here, 
an’ then we’ll be sure not to miss the masther when 
Ve comes out’* 

They had narely waited a few minutes, when th<i 
* ‘Work out my salv&tiou. 


NEW LI GflTS ; OR 


T6 

door behind them was thrown open, and a g/eat 
black pointer darted out, gambolling and frisk- 
ing ovet the lawn* Honora and her daughter 
stood up quickly, and, turning round, fbund 
themselves face to face with the arbiter of their 
fate. He was a stout, square-built man of middle 
size, with large, coarse features, garnished on either 
side by enormous black whiskers. His forehead 
was low, and by no means what is called intellectual. 
Still the expression of Mr. Ousely’s face was not 
bad, being characterized by a sort of jovial and 
rather frank bonhomie that made some amends for 
the fierce, bold look, and the flaming color. 

“ How now f ’ cried the lord of the manor 
taking the two females before him for mendicants 
— “ what the d — 1 brings you here so early I— 
can’t you go round the other way if you want 
help f ’ 

“ Oh ! Bridget dear ! hould me up, or I’ll fall !’” 
whispered Honora O’Daly to her daughter ; then 
raising her voice as high as her weakness would 
permit, as she saw that Mr. Ousely was for passing 
DUt: “ We’re not beggars, your honor, though, God 
help us! we don’t know how soon we may be !” 

“What the deuce are you then*?” cried the im- 
patient landlord, turning short round — “ what brings 
you here? Speak quickly, woman? for I can’t 
6 ‘and here waiting — what do you want?” 

“ Mr. Ouselv !” said poor Honora, in her low. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


Tt 

murmuring voice, “ you used to know me bettei 
nor this. I’m Bernard O’Daly’s wife, your honor, 
an’ — ” 

“ The d — 1 you are !” cried Ousely, “ an’ pray, 
madam, what brought you out of your bed so 
early ? 1 wish you had slept an hour or two 

longer ! what brought you here 

Confounded by the contemptuous roughness of 
his manner, poor Honora could not speak, but 
Bridget hastily answered : 

“ My mother was thinkin’, your honor, that if 
she’d come up herself and speak to you, and tell 
you how the matter stands, you might be pleased 
to give my father a little time — she thought — ” 

“ Let her speak for herself,” interrupted Ousely, 
“ I hate second-hand stories.” It was now Bridget’s 
turn to hang her head, and blush to the very tem- 
ples, and try to keep in her tears. 

“ I say, good woman ! do you mean to keep me 
here all day 1” 

Honora cleared her throat two or three times, 
for she felt as though her poor weak heart were 
rising up, up into her mouth. “ Well ! I was in 
hopes, Mr. Ousely, that if I’d come up myself — 
an’ God knows it’s ill able I am, for I didn’t set a 
foot outside the door these six weeks— -and tell 
you how distressed we are, you’d maybe be good 
enough to lie back a little longer. If we had any 
prospect of bein’ able to keep the farm, the boys 

7 * 


NEW lights; or, 


t8 

would all stay at home an’ work hard, i.s they al 
ways did, to get the arrears paid up, an’ keep us 
in it, but if you’re goin’ to put us out, an’ the agint 
says you are, then poor Cor mao is for goin’ to 
America, an’ maybe Daniel too, and that would 
break my heart, Mr. Ousely, indeed it would, sir ! 
Och, sir dear ! sir dear ! you didn’t use to be so 
hard upon the poor cratures that’s thryin’ all they 
can to plase you, an’ to pay the rent as far as 
they’re able !” 

“This is all very fine talk, Mrs. O’Daly, but it 
won’t do. Money I want, and money I must have 
— if your husband can’t give me all the amount of 
the arrears, let him give me the half of It — there 
now, that is a fair proposal !” 

“Ah, Mr. Ousely dear ! but it’s you that knows 
little about how we’re situated, or you wouldn’t 
expect money from us at this present time. You 
might just as well thry, your honor, to get it out 
of a whin-stone !” 

“ In that case we are both losing our time — I 
can do nothing for you — and mark me, • good 
woman ! your son shall have some trouble in getting 
away. I have heard a bad account of his conduct 
lately.” 

“ Is it Cormac, your honor f’ cried the astonished 
mother. “ Why, who dare say anything agin his 
character — oh ! your honor’s only jokin’ I Know — • 
sure the whole country can tell you that there's 


life in GALWAY. 


79 


not the likes of him in it for sobriety an’ indus- 
thry, an’ for a good son an’ a good brother, the 
Lord never put the breath o’ life in a betther boy ' 
Oh ! Mr. Ousely ! say what you like to me — I can 
bear anything, anything at all, but don’t spake agin 
Cormac — I can’t stand that, your honor, for that 
boy is the pride o’ the whole family — ” 

“ We shall soon see that !” said Ousely, cutting 
her short, “ you may go now, for you have your 
answer 1” He turned away, and began to whistle 
for his dog. 

“Well ! Mr. Ousely,” said Honora, in a firmer 
tone than she had before spoken, “ I suppose I may 
go. I stole out this mornin’ before any of our 
people were stirrin’, for I knew they wouldn’t let 
me come on such an errand. I’m goin’ back to 
them in bad heart, but I have this comfort, that if 
there’s no pity or mercy for us in this world, there 
is in the next — God sees all this !” 

“ Oh certainly, and so does the Virgin Mary — 
here. Prince, Prince ! Now, my good woman, it’s 
a pity it wasn’t to the Virgin you applied in this 
emergency, they say she’s great at working miracles 
for you Papists !” 

Shocked by the contemptuous tone in which he 
spoke of the Blessed Mother of God, the poor 
woman was moving away without any reply, but 
\ bright idea had en'^ered Ousely ’s sluggish mind^ 


60 


NEW lights; or, 


and he was now intent on carrying it out, so he was 
at her side in an instant. 

“Isay, Mrs. O’Daly” — Honora stopped still— 
“ what would you think, now, of coming over to us, 
the whole of you, and if you do — ” 

“ I don’t very well understand you, sir, I’m only 
a plain, simple woman, an’ not used to fine Eng 
lish— ” 

“ What the deuce ! havn’t I spoken plain enough, 
knowing your ignorance ! I say you can get over 
all your trouble, if you’ll only give up the old, 
crumbling Church of Rome, which is your ruin 
and the ruin of many others !” 

“ Oh ! you’re not in earnest now, Mr. Ousely, 
I know very well you’re not !” said Honora O’ 
Daly in a faint voice. 

“ Upon my honor and soul, good woman ! 1 
never was more in earnest in my life, and I speak 
to you as a friend I” 

“Och then, the Lord deliver me from sich 
friends !” and poor Honora’s voice sank lower and 
lower, till it was almost inaudible. “ Come, 
Bridget ! give me your arm and let us go, we’re 
long enough here !’’ 

“So you won’t condescend to answer me, 
madam !” cried Ousely, his face flaming with anger, 
“ What am I to think of such conduct 

“Mr. Ousely!” said Honora, and throwing 
back her hooi hr the first time, she startled even 


LIFE IN GALWAV, 


the imperious landlord by the sight of a counte- 
Caiice pale as death, eyes sunken and hollow, and 
lips colorless as_ those of a corpse. “ Mr. Ousely ! 
you may be satisfied now — you have given me 
the heaviest crush of all, an’ my heart’s broken, 
broken, broken ! — och ! blessed Lord !” she faintly 
whispered, “ but we’re come low, low, low, when 
they’d even offer it to 2 is to turn, to sell our souls 
for the bit an’ sup — och wlrra / wirra! wirra! 
Take me home, Bridget honey, take me home, an’ 
God grant I may live to see it : I’m done now any 
way !” 

“ Mother dear !” said Bridget in a whisper, 
“ won’t you bid Mr. Ousely good bye % he’s as 
mad as can be !” 

“I don’t care, Bridget, I’ll never spake another 
word to him, if I can help it ; he can only do his 
worst, an’ he’d do that any way. If I was dyin’ 
this minnit I’d lave my death on him !” 

“ Why what the d — 1 have I said to make the 
old gentlewoman so angry 1” shouted- Ousely. “ I 
only wanted to put you all in the way of doing 
well — upon my honor, that was all !” 

“ An’ I’d sooner you had tramped me down in 
the dust than say what you said.” Honora never 
turned her head as she spoke, but kept walking on 
as fast as she was able. 

“I tell you what, old wcman,” cried the angr;y 


NEW lights; or, 


landlord, “ you’ll rue this morning’s work as hit^ 
terly as ever you rued anything.” 

“ Never !” returned ITonora with an energy that 
made her whole frame quiver. “ I’ll never rue it. 
Come what will, with the help of God, I’d give 
you the same answer a thousand times over. Yon 
may put us out of the place that the O’Dalys have 
had, father and son, for hundreds o’ years, an’ send 
us to die on the road-side, or be shut up like jail- 
birds in the poor-house, but that’s all you can do ; 
you can’t take the faith from us that will comfort 
us in the hour of death, an’ gain heaven for us 
hereafter. No, Mr. Ousely, while we have the 
thrue faith, an’ do what it teaches us to do, we 
don’t regard any one. God can bring us safe 
through all, an’ you can only do what He gives 
you lave to do.” 

“ Well, we shall see whether God will do any- 
thing for you or not. By my honor and word, 
you’ll require his aid before many hours go by. 
Be off now from about the plae-e, or I’ll hunt the 
dog in you !” 

“ Oh, mother ! mother ! come away,” whispered 
Bridget again, “ he looks as if he was going to 
beat us — come away fast !” 

“ As fast as I can, dear,” said the heait-stricken 
mother. “ God help me ! I’m a poor •don‘<y era- 
ture ! Oh, Bridget, astore machree! I’m afeerd 


LIFE IN GALWAY,. 


83 


I’ll never be able to walk so far, my limbs are 
bendin’ under me.” 

Bridget looked round bewildered ; there was 
not a soul in sight, for Ousely had dashed oH 
through the trees at the rear of the mansion. 
“Won’t you sit down on one o’ these seats, mo- 
ther dear, and may be when you rest a little you’d 
have more strength.” 

“ No, no, Bridget, I’ll not run the risk of him 
, seein’ me again.” 

“ Well, then, try to keep up till we get to the 
gate-house, and Larry will send one of the children 
for some of our people to get a cart and come for 
us.” 

“ I will, agrah ! — I think — I hope — I can manage 
to walk that far. Och ! my heart’s broken, Brid 
get ! it’s down, down, never to rise again !” 

“ Don’t say that, mother dear — oh ! don’t say 
that ; I can’t bear to hear you talk that way !” and 
poor Bridget could scarcely speak without sob- 
Ving. 

Leaving Honora and her daughter to make their 
way home as they best can, let us return and take 
a peep at what was going on in the interior of 
Ousely Hall. 

The breakfast parlor was arranged fer the morn- 
il g meal. A bright coal fire was burning in the 
polished brass grate, the table was set in front of 
the fireplace, and nothing could be more elegant 


than the showy damask cloth, the silver tea service, 
and the beautiful Dresden china. The tea-kettle 
was steaming away on a stand within the fender, 
and a large plate of buttered toast was placed on 
a steamer close by, awaiting the time appointed 
for its deraolishment. The furniture of the room 
was not of the newest style, but it was rich and 
heavy, and well adapted to promote comfort. The 
two windows were hung with crimson drapery, 
which transmitted a soft warm light into the room, 
that made it look still more comfortable. At first 
sight there was no living creature visible, with the 
exception of a small brown spaniel, a beautiful 
creature, which lay on a cushion near the hearth ; 
but, by and by, there was a slight rustling of the 
window curtains, and a young girl of some nine- 
teen or twenty years stepped softly from behind 
their folds, and threw herself into an arm chair 
close by. She was a very lovely girl, with dark 
radiant eyes, and a purely Grecian face, thought- 
ful and intelligent in expression, as such faces gen- 
erally are. Her hair was of the darkest shade of 
auburn, and simply braided around her finely- 
formed head. Her figure w'as slight and graceful, 
and her stature considerably above the middle 
size. There was a troubled and even anxious look 
on her usually placid fiice, and she sat with her 
eyes fixed on vacancy, nor moved, though her dog 
went to claim the accustomed caress from her soft 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


hand. After a little while the door opened, and 
an elderly woman entered, whose face, though pale 
and somewhat care-worn, had so great a likeness 
to that of the young lady that there could be no 
doubt of their close kindred. They were indeed 
mother and daughter, the wife and daughter of 
Mr. Harrington Ousely. 

“ Why, Eleanor, my child, you look thoughtful 
this morning,” said her mother ; “ what is it that 
engrosses your mind so much V’ 

“ I was just thinking, mother,” said Eleanor, as 
she placed an easy chair for her mother near the 
table — “ I was just thinking of the very great con- 
trast which there is between our condition and that 
of the poor people from whom my father draws 
his income.” 

“ The contrast is certainly striking,” said Mrs. 
Ousely as she glanced around on the luxuriously- 
furnished room and the elegant breakfast table ; 
“ but then it is so ordained by Providence, and we 
have no need to trouble ourselves about it. There 
have been rich and poor ever since the world be- 
gan, or pretty nearly so.” 

“ Granted, my dear mother ; but it seems to 
me that there never were people situated exactly 
as these poor people are : they are starving, at 
feast many of them are, and yet they must try to 
pay rent. They are patient and resigned, as none 
but themselves could be under such circumstancop^ 
8 


80 


KEW lights; or, 


they never murmur against the will ci* God, 
though it consigns them to hunger, cold, and all 
manner of wretchedness, — and yet the religion 
which makes them thus patient and enduring is 
assailed in every shape and form. They are told 
that it is superstition — folly — ^nay, even idolatry ; 
they are perishing with hunger, and tracts and 
Bibles are offered them.” 

“ Why, Eleanor,” said her mother, “ how can 
you talk so ? They are provided with good whole- 
some nourishment for the body as well as for the 
soul.” 

“Yes, mother, but on what terms ? Are they 
not driven away like dogs from the soup-shops 
unless they will consent to barter their religion, as 
Esau did of old his birthright, for the mess of pot- 
tage ?” 

“ Well, well, child !” said her mother in a que**- 
ulous tone, “I don’t pretend to follow you in 
your philosophical flights. What in the world has 
started these ideas in your mind so early this 
morning 2 You haven’t been out, have you]” 

“ No, mother, but I happened to witness a scene 
from the window just before you came in that set 
me a^thinking in sober earnest. Who do you 
think was sitting waiting on the steps of the hall- 
door this morning for my father to make his ap- 
pearance I” 


LIFE IN GALWAT. 8*T 

“ Who was it, Eleanor ? you know I am not 
rery good at guessing.” 

“ Why, poor Mrs. O’Daly.” 

“ What, Bernard O’Daly’s wife ! Why, she 
has been ailing for several weeks. I heard it said 
that she was very far gone indeed.” 

“ And so she is, mother, so far gone that I do 
not think she will live many days ; yet you see 
she ventured up here, hoping that the sight of her 
exhausted state might move my father to do some- 
thing for them. Now you and I both can under- 
stand how much that step must have cost her, for 
we have often been amused at the poor woman’s 
family pride, and her efforts to keep up a show ot 
respectability.” 

“ Yes, I know that,” said Mrs. Ousely, slowly, 
her features working with an indescribable emotion 
of pity and surprise. “ Poor Honora ! how low 
she has fallen ! and indeed I am sorry — sorry. 
She is a very worthy woman, and brought up a 
fine family, I must say, although they are Papists. 
W ell, did she succeed 

“ No, mother, she did not succeed,” replied Elea- 
nor, sadly ; “ my father treated her so roughly tha; 
1 really felt ashamed ; and as for the poor woman 
herself, I could see very well that her daughter 
Bridget, who was hei only companion, had to keep 
her from falling. Still, if my father had contented 
himself with refusing her request, it would not 


63 


NEW lights; or, 


have been so bad, but, unfortunately, he thought It 
a good opportunity to promote the interests of the 
Reformation, so he made her a proposal that if she 
and her family gave up their religion— paying it a 
very handsome compliment at the same time, such 
as you may well imagine — he would make all 
smooth, and set them on their legs again.” 

“ Dear me, he might have known there was no 
use in making such an offer to her, I should, never 
have thought of such a thing. Well, and how did 
she take it, Eleanor *?” 

“ J ust as I expected ; her proud heart, still unsub- 
dued, swelled up with indignation, and the effect on 
her feeble frame was plainly visible, even to me in 
here. I really think she defied my father— certain 
it is that she turned away, leaning on her daugh- 
ter’s arm, and never condescended to look at 
him again, though he called after her more than 
once in threatening language. She answered 
him, indeed, as well as she could, but never turned 
round. 1 would gladly have gone out to speak a 
word of comfort to the poor woman, but I saw my 
father standing looking after the two as they went 
down the avenue; and even when he turned away 
into the wood with Prince after him, I was afraid 
to venture, lest he might see me, for I know he 
would scold me most unmercifully if he saw me 
speaking to Mrs. O’Daly just then.” 

Well, said Mrs. Ousely in a hesitating tone, 


LlfE IN GALWAY 


’‘J am just as anxious as any one to see these 
wretched people drawn forth from the errors ol 
Popery, but” 

“ But you could not make up your mind to out- 
rage the unfortunate in the way that I have been 
describing,” said Eleanor with a smile. “ I know 
it, my dear mother, and would to heaven that my 
father had half yorzr compassion for the poor ; then 
indeed we might hope to” 

“Win the people over from the errors of Rome.” 

“ Not exactly that, my dear mother,” and Elea- 
nor smiled again. “ 1 meant that we might soon 
hope to improve the condition of our tenantry. I 
do not think the mire of Popery so very great an 
evil, after all. But ‘ tell it not in Gath,’ my dear 
mother ;” and she raised her taper finger play- 
fully. “ Hush ! here comes my father. I hear 
him talking to Prince as though there were a dozen 
with him. I must hurry and put the tea to draw.” 

But it was not to Prince that Mr. Ousely was 
then talking, for he had, during his morning ram- 
ble, picked up a companion of another kind. This 
w'as a biped of the genus man — a tall, cadaverous- 
looking personage, with a singularly discontented 
aspect, and a pair of round shoulders that took 
somewhat from his unusual length and gave him 
the appearance of bending forward, even when he 
stood perfectly straight. This person was ushered 
into the parlor by the master of the mansion with 


90 


NEW lights; or, 


a “ Walk in, Mr. McGilligaii — walk in, sir ; it’s 
only my wife and daughter.” 

The ladies returned the somewhat awkward bow 
of the visitor, and Eleanor looked inquiringly at 
her father. “ This is Mr. MeGilligan, Eleanor. 
Hetty, my dear,” to his wife, “ this is Mr. McGilli- 
gan, of whom you have often heard me speak ; he is 
exceedingly useful to us in propagating the truth.” 

“I have seen the gentleman before,” observed 
Mrs. Ousely very coolly. “ Pray be seated, Mr. — 
Mr. MeGilligan.” 

“ I have brought him home to breakfast, Het- 
ty,” resumed her husband, “ as we have some ofli 
cial business to transact afterwards.” Politeness 
would not permit the ladies to express any sur- 
prise ; but Eleanor could not help thinking of poor 
Honora O’Haly, kept standing outside the door, 
and dismissed with contempt and insult. She 
sighed as she. took her place at the table and pro- 
ceeded to make the tea. 

MeGilligan quickly perceived that the ladies 
were not disposed to talk with him, so he wisely 
addressed his conversation to his host. How 
great was Eleanor’s surprise when she found that 
the excellent Scripture-reader had come for the 
express purpose of lodging a complaint against 
Cormac O’Daly and others for assault and batteiy 
She listened with apparent indifference, but her 
mind was busily at work on a benevolent project. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


91 


CHAPTER V. 


To make one maid sincere and fair 

Oh ! ’tis the utmost Heaven can do. — ^^I oorb. 

Beauty alone is of but little worth, 

But when the soul and body of a piece 

Both shine alike, then they obtain a price. — ^Y ouno- 


The only being who could really influence Har- 
rington Ousely through his aflections was his 
daughter Eleanor, whom he loved with nearly 
undivided affection, for she was his only remaining 
child, and such a child as could not fail to evoke 
all the tenderness of a parent’s heart. He regarded 
his wife, it is true, with a sort of half-respectful, 
nalfloving kind of feeling, and did not scold or 
abuse her more than once a week or so, but she 
nad never exercised the slightest influence over 
him: in fact, she had not sufficient energy of 
character ever to make the attempt. She was 
naturally of a soft and yielding disposition, full of 
sympathy for the woes of her fellow- creatures, and 
ever ready to relieve them as far as lay in her 
power ; but she had been brought up by a popery- 
hating old uncle and aunt, from whom she had 
imbibed that leading trait of character, and allowed 


B2 NEW lights; or, 

it to influence her whole life. Her mind had never 
received any special cultivation, more than that 
generally given in fashionable boarding schools, so 
that her reach of thought was by no means very 
extensive. Still she was a good, well-meaning 
woman, and discoursed on ordinary topics with 
propriety and even elegance of diction. But her 
daughter was quite a different sort of person •; 
gifted with a high order of intellect, and a solidity 
of judgment by no means common to her age and 
sex, she had had the advantage of being educated 
oy one who was fully competent 

“ To rear the tender thought; 

To teach the young idea how to shoot, 

And breathe th’ enlivening spirit.” 

This was a widowed sister of Mr. Ousely, who had 
resided in the family during the years of Eleanor’s 
infancy and childhood, and who, being herself a 
woman of commanding talents and cultivated 
mind, together with a loving and tender heart, had 
elicited and matured all the higher qualities and 
more amiable instincts of her niece’s mind and 
heart, so that when she left Ousely Hall, to take 
up her abode with a sister in the south of England, 
Eleanor, then seventeen, was already complete in 
her education, both moral and intellectual. It was 
a hard trial for both aunt and niece to tear 
themselves asunder, but the path of duty must be 
trod, and Mrs. Ormsby was called to w^atch over 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


9S 


the gradual decline of an only and belavod sister, 
who was drooping day by day, and pining away 
amongst strangers in a foreign land, her husband 
being in the employment of government, so that 
he could not choose his place of abode. From 
her earliest infancy, Eleanor had exercised no small 
control over her father, even when he had other 
children to divide his affection ; but when death 
had gathered all the others into the dreary man- 
^ sions of the tomb, then Eleanor became the 
reigning sovereign, and it was only when some 
sudden gust of passion swept away for the moment 
both reason and affection, that her influence failed. 

On the present occasion, she made up her mind 
to defeat Andrew McGilligan in his vengeful 
machinations, but in order to do this efficaciously, 
it was necessary that she should abstain from any 
open manifestation of interest in the O’Daly 
family, who, as steadfast Catholics, were peculiarly 
obnoxious to the Jumpers. Not a word of the 
conversation between her father and the Bible-reader 
was lost on Eleanor, but she prudently refrained 
from joining in it, addressing herself only to her 
mother, and when her father, now and then, called 
upon her for her opinion, she answered cautiously 
and evasively. She was amused, however, to hear 
McGilligan complain of the brutal usage he had 
received, and suddenly raising her eyes to his face; 


94 


NEW lights; or, 


at the close of one of his whining harangues, she 
asked in a cool, indifferent tone : 

“ It was yesterday this happened — was it not V* 

“Yes, Miss, yesterday evening !” replied Andrew 
in his smoothest voice. 

“ And you were badly hurt, were you 

“ W ell ! no,” stammered Andrew, “ not to say 
hurt neither, but that wasn’t their fault, and I was 
wet to the very skin.” 

“ I do not at all doubt it,” said Eleanor, drily ; 
“ a ducking involves a wetting. And so, Cormac 
O’Daly pushed you in, you say 

“ No, Miss Ousely, he didn’t push me in, it was 
the other rascal called Brian — Brian something.” 

“O then, Cormac O’Daly had nothing to do 
with the ducking 

“ That’s right, Eleanor !” shouted her father, 
“ cross-examine him ! Upon my honor you can 
do it well — keep to it, I say !” 

“ Oh ! I have no desire to puzzle Mr. Mc- 
Gilligan,” said Eleanor, calmly, “but it appears 
to me that there is no serious cause of complaint 
against this young man, O’Daly, and as there were 
so many persons present on the occasion, the truth 
must out, and the charge would, of course, fall to 
the ground.” 

“ What the d — 1, Eleanor !” cried Ousely, “ do 
you mean to say that we could not give the fellow 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


95 


some punishment for his impudence! a month or 
two in Galway jail would cool him down some.” 

“ Yes, but how can you have him committed to 
iail ? on what pretence, my dear father. If there 
were, any chance of the assault being proved, then 
should have no objection to your receiving it, but 
it strikes me that by going on with this affair you 
will merely raise a laugh at Mr' McGilligan’s 
expense, seeing that he merely met with a rebuff 
in his praiseworthy attempt to make a convert, so 
far as O’Daly was concerned, and even as to this 
Brian, whatever his name is, it may turn out that 
even he did not mean to commit an assault. Our 
worthy friend here might possibly have stept back 
into the drain in the heat of the discussion.” 

“ No, Miss,” said Andrew, somewhat indignantly, 
“ I never forget myself so far as that ; it was when 
I was climbing the ditch, you see, that my foot 
slipped, and even that would not have happened to 
me, had it not been for that vile man, Brian, who 
made an attempt to get hold of my tracts, which 
being exceedingly valuable (inasmuch as there 
were fifty of the Virgin reduced to the level of Other 
Women^ and seventy-five of Confession the great 
Abomination)^ did incautiously let go my hold, in 
my earnest anxiety to save the precious bundle, 
and so fell in — ' 

“ So Brian did not actually apply hand or foot 
Lo your person 


96 


NEW LIGHTS, OK, 


« Why, he was the cause of my mishap. Miss 
Ousely, and if I got my best trowsers and brown 
surtout all covered with mud, and lost seventy-five 
and fifty — let me see — that is, one hundred and 
twenty-five of our best tracts, the fault is entirely 
his, aided, of course, and abetted by that incorri- 
gible Papist, Cormac O’Daly.” 

“ They must be made an example of, McGilligan, 
upon my honor and soul ! they must ! these 

stubborn Papists must be brought under, by ” 

and he swore an awful oath ; “ when neither hunger 
nor thirst will do it, then law must ! that’s my 
notion, so no more talk about it. I’ll direct the 
clerk, after breakfast, to give you summonses for 
these rascals.” 

“ You had better say nothing more about it, my 
dear Eleanor,” said Mrs. Ousely ; “ the law must 
take its course, you know, and our excellent Scrip- 
ture-readers must really be protected by the strong 
arm of authority, in their arduous undertaking.” 

“ I bow to my father’s superior wisdom and 
yours, my dear mother,” said Eleanor with a smile ; 
“ and I hope Mr. McGilligan will excuse me for 
what I have said in pure good will.” 

“ Oh ! surely. Miss, surely,” and Andrew ducked 
his head down on his chest, and wriggled, and 
smiled a wan smile. “No harm done. Miss, not 
the smallest !” So the breakfast went on in peace, 
laid when it was ended, Eleanor rf.quested he? 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


father just to look at some sketches which she was 
Bendin^ff to her aunt Ormsby by the first posk 

“ Wouldn’t it do when I have got through with 
McGilligan *?” 

“ It might, but I would rather have you come 
DOW, as I am going over to Clareview this after- 
noon, and want to send off my letters as eaily as 
I can. Mr. McGilligan can surely wait a few 
minutes.” 

“ As long as you please, miss. I’m not in any 
hurry,” said Andrew graciously,-being quite elated 
at the prospect of having revenge. 

“Come along, then, you little moppet” — Elea 
nor was fully as tall as himself — “ you will have 
your own way.” 

“ Not always, father,” said Eleanor, looking 
back with a bright smile as she led the way to her 
own boudoir. . 

“ Now, father,” said she, when he had looked 
over the drawings and given his due meed of 
praise to their execution — “ now, father, you pro- 
mised to grant me any favor I might ask if I would 
only stay at home.” 

“ Yes, but I’ll never forgive Dorothy for asking 
^ou,” interrupted Ousely, in a gruff tone; “she 
•aad no business to do it. How the d — 1 does she 
"hink I could live a whole month without my little 
^C-canor, eh ]” 

“ >^ell, that is not the point in question, father 


NEW lights; or, 


H 

you must forgive my aunt Ormsby, for you know 
she, too, loves your Eleanor dearly, almost as 
dearly as her father does,” and she put her arms 
coaxingly around his neck. “ I have given up the 
pleasure of paying my aunt a visit, and you prO' 
mised to grant me a favor. Now I am going to 
ask one.” 

“ And what may it be ?” 

“ Only to , quash these proceedings against 
O’Daly; nothing can be more absurd than bring- 
ing such an affair into court, and it will be sure to 
do more harm than good to the cause ; and then 
the O’Dalys are so much respected, and they are 
in such distress, that the sympathy of the people 
will be strongly aroused in their favor.” 

“ And who the d — 1 cares whether it is or 
not ?” cried Ousely, his ire beginning to rise. 

“ I know, my dear father, I know,” said Eleanor 
in her sweetest accents, “ but then I have set my 
heart on this matter, and you will not refuse my 
request, more especially as your promise is at 
stake. If you do, I shall thiiik you don’t love me.” 

“ Then you’d think what isn’t true, Nell. There, 
d — n it. I’ll not refuse you, only tell McGilligan 
yourself, for he’ll be d — d disappointed.” 

“ Leave all that to me, my dear father,” said 
Eleanor, still preserving her tranquillity of tone 
and manner. “ I’ll take ii upon myself to dis 
mis3 the plaintiff in this case,” and she smiled, 


life in q alw ay. 


99 


^Thanks — a thousand thanks,' my dear father;” 
she stooped, for he was sitting, and kissed his fore- 
head. “ So now you can go wherever you like, 
and I will return to the breakfast parlor. I sup- 
pose my mother is pretty well tired of Andrew 
by this time,” she said to herself as she tripped 
down the grand stairs and along the hall. The 
squire decamped through a side door, whistling 
“ The Protestant Boys.” 

“ Mr. McGilligan,” said Eleanor as she entered 
the parlor, “ my father bids me say that he has 
come to the conclusion that you had better drop 
this affair ; he is sensible now that no good cx)uld 
come of it.” 

“ How, Miss Ousely !” said the Bible reader, 
slowly, fixing his leaden eye upon the young lady’s 
face. “ That was not his opinion when he left here 
a few minutes ago.” 

“ I grant you it was not,” replied Miss Ousely, 
*'• and I will further admit that it was I who rea- 
soned him into this conviction ; but I intend to 
indemnify you for my share in your disappoint- 
ment. You know you have frequently asked me 
to visit Mr. Jenkinson’s and Miss Gregory’s 
schools, and I have never yet done so. 1 will go 
to-morrow and examine the children with cme or 
?,>^o of my friends — will that suffice 1” 

^ Oh, surely miss, surely.” This was a favorite 


lOO JS EW LIGHTS ; OR, 

word with Andrew. “It’s hard, though, that 1 
couldn’t get those rascals punished.” 

“ Punished for what, Mr. McGilligan ?” asked 
Eleanor with an arch smile. “ But, at all events, 
a bargain is a bargain ; you give up your suit and 
I give up my aversion to visiting schools — all fair, 
you know. Mother, of course you’ll go ’With me, 
as you often go alone.” 

“ With great pleasure, my dear, and I am truly 
rejoiced to hear that you propose going ; it is 
what you should have done long since. I am quite 
sure, Mr. McGilligan, that my daughter’s appear- 
ance, and her beginning to take an active part in 
our affairs, will do a great deal of good.” 

“ More than the prosecution w’ould, at all events,” 
added Eleanor. 

“ It may be so,” muttered Andrew, who was still 
far from being satisfied, but he dared not persist 
any more, fearful of losing even the ground he had 
gained. 

“ And now you’ll be kind enough to leave us to 
ourselves,” said Eleanor, seeing that the Bible 
reader manifested no intention of moving. “ My 
mother and I have something particular to do ; 
you must therefore excuse us.” 

“Oh, surely, miss, surely ; I hope you’ll not foiv 
get your promise, though, of visiting the schools.” 

“ I seldom do forget a promise,” said Eleanor, 
with a quiet dignity that well became her. “ Good 


LIFE IN G ALWAY. 


101 


morning, Mr. McGilligan !” then ringing the bell, 
she ordered the servant w’ho appeared to show the 
gentleman to the door. 

“Well, Eleanor,'’ exclaimed her mother, as the 
door closed on McGilligan, “ you have a strange 
way of your own. How in the world can you 
treat people so cavalierly 

“ Why, mother, that is the only w^ay in which 
you can get rid of such people. With all due def 
erence to you, your Scripture-reader, or tract- 
vender, is about the greatest bore in creation. De- 
fend me from giving encouragement to such gentry. 
But it is time I was making my toilet. Do you 
go to Clare view this forenoon, mother 1” 

“ No, my dear, I think not,” said Mrs. Ousely, 
as she drew her chair still nearer the fire, and 
placed her feet on the fender ; “ the weather begins 
to be chilly, and my blood is not as warm as it 
used to be. You must ride over alone, except you 
can get your father to go.” 

“ Oh, I can easily manage that ; I have gained 
a greater victory than that this morning.” 

“Ah, that’s true,” said the mother* “ I was fcr* 
getting to ask how you managed to carry your 
point.” 

Eleanor told her mother in a very few words 
how she had overcome her father’s obduracy, and 
thev were still talking the subject '.Over when th a 


102 


NEW lights; or 


servant partially opened the door — “ Is the mi* 
tress in there, miss V’ 

Yes, Anne ; what’s the matter 

^ Here’s Tom Malone, ma’am, wanting to see 
you.” 

“ Let him come in, then.” 

Tom was ushered in accordingly. He was a 
thin-faced, under-sized man, with a shrewd, know 
ing look, but his habiliments were in a sad state 
of dilapidation, and he was otherwise the very pic* 
ture of a man by whom dame Fortune had dealt 
unkindly. He carried in one hand an old battered 
caudeen, and in the other a stick, which supported 
his tottering limbs, for, though scarcely arrived at 
middle age, poor Tom Malone was infirm and 
well nigh helpless. 

“ Your sarvint, ladies,” said Tom, as the servant 
closed the door. “ I’m sorry for troublin’ you so 
early, but I was afeerd you’d be out if I’d wait 
any longer. I wanted to spake to the misthress 
regardin’ a little business of my own.” 

“And what may that be, Tom'?” said Mrs. 
Ousely, in a kind tone,* while Eleanor prepared to 
leave the room, seeing that her presence was not 
required, 

“I hope you’ll not be offended at me, Mrs. 
Ousely,” said Tom, “for only I couldn’t help it, 
I’d never make free to throuble you.” 

• \\ hy, Tom, if it be iny help you want, there 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 103 

IS no need for your inaking an apology, it is not 
the first time you have asked charity of me.” 

“True for you, ma’am,” said Tom, “an’ it’s 
myself that always found you an’ Miss Eleanor 
here the kind, good friends, may the Lord give 
you the worth of your goodness to me an’ mine. 
But it’s not thjo.t that brought me now, misthress 
dear, only to talk to you about the little girl, 
ma’am.” 

“ Who, Nancy 

“ Yis, ma’am, it’s about Nancy I came this time.” 
Eleanor turned back from the door, and sat down 
to hear what would follow. “ I’m tould, ma’am, 
that you’re wantin’ Nancy to go to church, an’ I 
jist made it my business to come up an’ see if it’s 
thrue, for my mind is greatly throubled ever since 
1 heard it, which was only last night.” 

Eleanor looked at her mother and smiled ma. 
liciously. Mrs. Ousely blushed slightly, but she 
answered quickly; “I have never attempted to 
force any of my servants in that respect, but I do 
occasionally advise them, for their own good. I 
have spoken to Nancy sometimes on the subject ol 
religion, but as yet I have not succeeded in 
convincing her. Poor Nancy is very ignorant, I 
must say,” 

“An’ so is her father, too, ma’am. We’re both 
poor ignorant creatures. God help us ! but then our 
ignorance won’t hindher us from gettin’ to heaven, 


104 NEW lights; or, 

if we only do what the Church and the clargy tells 
us to do,” 

“ But how do you know that, Tom ?” demanded 
Eleanor earnestly. “ You confess yourself igno- 
rant, how then can you be sure that you are in the 
right road to heaven 1” 

“ Why, bless my soul. Miss Eleanor ! there’s no 
need of lamin’ to know that. I know my catechism 
well, thanks be to God, an’ I’m as sure that I’m in 
the right way as that I’m sittin’ here this minnit. 
I’d rayther than a good deal that you could say 
the same. Miss Eleanor, an’ the misthress, God’s 
blessin’ be about you both.” Eleanor sighed, and 
smiled faintly, but said nothing. 

“Well! but about your daughter, Tom !” said 
Mrs. Ousely. “ I hope you do not think of taking 
her away.” 

“ Indeed an’ I do, ma’am, beggin’ your ladyship’s 
pardon, that’s jist what I came for, if it’s plasin’ 
to you.” 

“ But it is not pleasing to me, for I feel a real 
interest in the girl, because of her simplicity and 
goodness of heart. If you will allow her to 
remain, I promise you that I will do all I can for 
her.” 

“Yes, ma,’am, but you could only do for her 
body, an’ sure that’s not the main thing, at all. 
Now, Mrs. Ousely, ma’am, the short an’ tlie long 
of it is this. If I could let her go to hell with anj^ 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


lOS 

one, it ’nd be with you, but ycu know I can’t do 
(hat, ma’am, at all, at all, for you see God gave 
her to me to bring her safe to heaven, an’ if I 
didn’t do that, but let her go headlong down into 
the bottomless pit, how could I face Him, or what 
could I say when He’d ask me, ‘ Tom Malone ! 
where’s that little girl I gave you V Oh, bedad, 
ma’am, that would never do at all, so with your 
lave I’ll take Nancy home with me, an’ we had 
best be off before the masther comes, or he’ll be 
ragin’ mad, an’ there’s no use, ma’am, in puttin’ 
him in a passion. Maybe you’d be good enough, 
Miss Eleanor dear, to ordher the sarvints to send 
Nancy home with me, an’ to bring her duds along 
with her.” 

Eleanor could scarcely speak for laughing, and 
nodding assent to Tom, she asked her mother how 
she liked Tom’s logic. “ Ibr my part,” said she, 
half jestingly, but really in sober earnest, “ for my 
part, I consider it unanswerable. Shall I go, my 
dear mother, and order Nancy up 1” 

“Just wait a moment, Eleanor ! Now, Tom, 1 
am really sorry to part with Nancy, will you not 
let her stay, if I pledge you my honor that I will 
never again say a word to her about religion *?” 

“ I’m heart sorry, ma’am, to have to refuse you, 
but I can’t do it, at all. It’s an ould sayin’ that 
there^s many ways to kill a dog besides chokin' him 
with buttery an’ so it is with the religion, ma’am 


106 


NEW I IG HTS; C 


Even if you wouldn’t say anything to her about it, 
there’s the masther, that couldn’t keep from it if he 
was paid for it, an’ then there’s aiways a pack of them 
Bible-readers an’ Jumpers, an’ the devil knows what, 
back and for’ards to the house, so it isn’t safe 
quarthers for an innocent little girl like my Nancy, 
that’s not able to deal with the schamin villains — 
I ax your pardon, ma’am, an’ yours. Miss Eleanor !” 

Eleanor turned to the window to conceal the 
smile whinh she could not repress, but her mother 
frowned, and began to look very coldly on poor 
Tom. “ You can go, then, and take your daughter,” 
she said stiffly, “ and you need not trouble yourself 
coming up to the Hall again. I cannot encourage 
a person who speaks so uncharitably of God’s 
faithful servants.” 

“Well ! ma’am, it can’t be helped,” said Tom, 
grasping his stick and his caubeen, “ I’m thankful to 
you, your ladyship, for what’s past, except wantin’ 
to turn Nancy, an’ all I can do for you I will, that is. 
pray to God to bring you into the right way. 
God be with you, ma’am, an’ you too. Miss 
Eleanor, may His blessin’ be about you every day 
you rise.” So away marched Tom, muttering in 
an audible voice, “ God’s faithful sarvints, inagh ! 
- -faix, it’s not God they’re sarvin’ any how — I’m 
thinkin’ it’s the ould gintleman below ! but what’s 
that to me, so long as Nancy’s kept clear o’ them !” 

In a few minutes Nancy, a neat, tidy girl ot 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


107 


Bixteeii or seventeen, came into the room with her 
little hund]^ in her hand, to bid the ladies “ good 
bye,” and to thank them for all their kindness to 

her. 

“ Well, Nancy,” said her mistress, “ this is very 
sudden. Are you not sorry to leave your place 1” 
“ I am indeed, ma’am, for God knows both you 
an’ Miss Eleanor have been as good to me as heart 
could wish, an’ I’ll never get sich a place again — • 
I know that well, but then my father says I must 
go, an’, of coorse, I must when he says so.” 

Both the ladies expressed their regret to lose 
Nancy, and although her wages were all paid up 
before-hand, yet Eleanor placed a crown piece in 
her hand as she closed the door after her. 

“ Now, mother,” said the young lady, looking in 
for a moment before she went up to dress, “ what 
do you think of all this 7” 

“ Think of it *?” replied her mother ; “ why what 
can I think of it, only that these poor benighted 
Papists are exceedingly obstinate !” 

“ Ah mother ! mother !” and Eleanor held up 
her finger in playful admonition, “ah! mother! 
is it obstinacy, or constancy — which? I much fear 
that they are more to be respected for resisting 
than we for attacking. But, mercy on me ! mo- 
ther, what an hour it is. I must be off at once !’* 

“ Stay, Eleanor, my dear ! I’ll be up stairs with 
you- -on second thoughts, I will go with you to 


1D3 


NEW lights; ORj 


Clareview. You can tell Ben to ha^e the phaeton 
at the door in half an hour.” 

The phaeton was brought round at the appointed 
time, and the ladies were just stepping in, when 
Mr. Ousely issued from the covert, his fowling 
pieee on his arm, and Prinee at his heels. “ Hillo ! 
Hetty ! Nell ! where are you bound for nowl” 

“ Por Clareview, my dear,” replied Mrs. Ouse- 
ly in her quiet tone, “ will you join us 1” 

“ No, by , Hetty ! you’ll not catch me in haste 

there again ! The priest and I shall never meet 
again at Dixon’s table. What the mischief brings 
you there, either of you, when you don’t know but 
it’s some Popish people you’ll meet.” 

“And if we do, my dear father,” said Eleanor 
gaily, “ I hope you are not afraid of us. None of 
them will try to convert any of yaur family.” 

“ Eight again, Nell, by Jove ! they know a trick 
worth two of it. Drive on, Ben ; — mind how yoi. 
handle the reins, my lad.” 

“ Oh ! never fear, your honor, never fear. I’m 
jist the boy to take good care o’ the ladies. Is it 
to Clareview, ma’am?” 

“ Yes, Ben, and Miss Ousely wants you to stop 
at Hampton House as we pass.” 

“ I say, Hetty,” called out Mr. Ousely; “you’ll 
be back to dinner, won’t you ?” 

“ Certainly, my dear, we shall not stay very long. 
Good-bye.” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


109 


The ladies hadgt’.ne but a little way, when whom 
should they meet but Jenkinson, the schookraaster, 
going up, full speed, to the Hall. Taking off his 
hat very politely to the ladies, as they passed, he 
asked Ben if Mr. Ousely was at home. Whether 
Ben heard him or not, he drove on without making 
any answer ; but as soon as Jenkinson was left a 
little behind, he said to himself, loud enough to be 
heard, “ The devil send you knowledge, you sour^ 
faced hypocrite.” 

Eleanor looked at her mother, but the good lady 
was, or appeared to be, wrapped in her own reflec- 
tions, so her daughter contented herself with say- 
ing internally, “Worse and worse; even Ben, 
Protestant as he is, has no love for the Jumpers.” 

Having made a short visit at Hampton House, 
and a longer one at Clareview, the ladies set out 
on their return, and had nearly reached the gate- 
house, when they perceived our old acquaintance 
Phil Maguire, marching up the avenue before 
them, in company with one of their own servants. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Maguire ?” said Elea- 
nor, in her calm, sweet voice, as the carriage passed 
him. 

“ Why, blood alive. Miss Eleanor !” said Phil, 
putting his hand respectfully to his hat, and evt 
dently well pleased at tne meeting. “ Is it hero 
have you — ^and the ir.istnress ‘.oo — your sarvin* 
ma’am !” 


10 


110 NEW LI GUTS ; OR, 

“ Wh.it business have you on hands now, Mr. 
Maguire, that you’re going up to the Hall to-day 

“ Bad ’cess to the bit, Miss Eleanor, but the 
masther sent for me, so he did, an’ myself doesn’t 
know the raison, except maybe a guess or so. 
This dacent boy tells me that Jenkinson the school- 
master’s up at the house, an’ maybe it’s him that 
wants to see me, for I know he has a mighty great 
regard for me, an’ especially since this mornin’ — 
heth, he didn’t lose any time,” he added, in an 
under tone. 

“Why, what took place this morning, Mr. 
Maguire f’ demanded the young lady, with a 
smile. 

“ Oh, nothing. Miss Eleanor — nothing at all, 
only a couple of children that I took from the 
school below. But I’m right glad to see that you’re 
goin’ home. Miss, for I want you to spake a soft 
word to the masther for me ; not that I care much, 
one way or the other ; but then a body doesn’t 
like to be abused for nothing at all, an’ besides. 
I’m afeard o’ my life that I might lose my temper, 
an’ say something that the masther wouldn’t like 
to hear, if he’d be cornin’ too hard on myself or my 
religion.” 

“Never mind, Mr. Maguire,” said Eleanor, 
laughingly, “ I’ll be on the spot, and you may de- 
pend upon my best exertions being used to keep 
the peace.” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


lU 


“ Long life to you, Miss Eleanor, and many 
thanks ! — I’ll get somebody to thank you, besides 
myself!” added Phil, with a knowing look. 

Eleanor blushed and smiled, and told Ben to 
drive on, pretending not to have heard Phil’s last 
words. She did, however, and so did her mother, 
who raised her veil, and looked sharply at her 
daughter. “ What on earth does he mean, Elea- 
nor she said, in a low voice ; “ for I see by your 
face that you understand the allusion.” Eleanor 
put it off with a laugh, observing that every one 
knew Phil Maguire and his droll way of talking. 
Mrs. Ousely shook her head, but said nothing. 

When they reached the house, they found a con ■ 
sultation going on between Jenkinson and Mr. 
Ousely, the latter from time to time raising his 
voice to give vent to a thundering oath, or a violent 
imprecation against Popery. Eleanor looked in as 
she passed, but her mother went straight up stairs, 
having no wish to interfere in the impending 
quarrel. 

‘Hard at work, father!” said Eleanor, laugh- 
ings — « hammering away at poor Popery. I 
wouldn’t be Eather 0‘Driscoll now, for a good 
deal.” 

“ Are you coming to help us, Nell 

“ Not just yet, father. I’ll be back in a few min 
Ltes.” And away she tripped, to join her motheJ 
in her dressing-room. 


112 


NEW lights; or, 


CHAPTER VT. 

Oh ! Mnman, lovely woman 1 nature made thee 

To temper man ; we had been brutes without thee — Otwav. 

“ Eleanor, my dear !” said Mrs. Ousely, as she 
threw herself on a lounge in the dressing-room, “ I 
would not mind, if I were you, going down to the 
parlor just now. I do not see what interest you 
can have in listening to those tiresome disputes !” 

“ My dearest mother !” cried Eleanor, who was 
already at the door, on her way down stairs, “ I 
wouldn’t miss that scene for anything. There’s a 
volume of Madame de Sevignds Letters just by you, 
that will amuse you till I retiuTi.” And without 
waiting for an answer, she descended to the back 
parlor, where she found Phil Maguire just estab- 
lishing his burly person on a chair near the door, 
and listening with imperturbable gravity to a most 
abusive harangue from Mr. Ousely. He merely 
looked round as Eleanor entered, without even 
turning his head. Ever and anon he glanced at 
Jenkinson, who sat staring at Ousely with mouth 
and eyes open, greedily drinking in his words. 

“And now what have you to say for yourself 
Maguire said Ousely, by way of winding up. 

\ 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


113 




“ M}’- answer’s very short, your honor,” replied 
Phil, without moving a muscle, “ that I’d do the same 
over again the night before the morrow, if there 
W'as any necessity for it. That’s jist what I have 
to say, Misther Ousely ! an’ if it’s not plasin’ to 
you, I .can’t help it. I’m a man that never goes 
round the bush to tell w'hat I think.” 

“ What !” cried Ousely in a raised voice, “ do 
you mean to insult me in my own house 

“ I’d rayther cut my tongue out, your honor, 
than insult any gentleman in his own house, an’ 
you least of all. I only answered the question you 
put to me, an’ I meant no offence to any one.” 

“ Blood and furies, man ! what business had you 
to concern yourself about the brats what was it 
to you where they went to school 

“ Not much, to be siire,” said Phil coolly, “ only 
that I knew their poor father, God rest his soul ! 
an’ I knew him for the heart an’ soul of a good 
Catholic — so is their mother, too. She’s wwkin’ 
at home with my woman — so you see, your honor, 
I couldn’t see the children goin’ to the devil, knowin’ 
what they ought to be !” 

“ Going to the devil !” repeated Ousely, his face 
rimson with rage, “ how dare you speak so to me f’ 
“ Faith, an’ I don’t know where else they’d be 
goin’, if they’d be left in the hands of sich lads as 
him,” pointing to Jenkinson. “ Didn’t the wmman 

kidnap them off the road-side 
10 * 


114 


NEW lights; or 


“ Why do you speak so disrespectfully of the 
lady, you wretched man f’ said Jcnkinsoii, in hi a 
deep, solemn tones. 

“ God forbid I was as wretched as you are !” 
retorted Phil. As for ‘ the lady,’ as you call 
her, I’ll respect her as a lady when she acts like 
one. It isn’t very seemly conduct for a lady to be 
tell in’ lies, an’ hoodwinkin’ poor simple children^ 
an’ inveiglin’ them into the den where you an’ the 
likes of you’s doin’ the devil’s work !” 

“ By the Lord Harry ! Phil Maguire,” shouted 
Ousely, jumping to his feet, “ I’ll make you sorry 
for this — I’ll — I’ll turn you out on the road, by 


“You forget the bit of a lease, Mr. Ousely!” 
returned Phil very composedly. “ Thank God ! I 
had it secured before you lost your senses — I beg 
your honor’s pardon — I mane before the black 
gentry got about you — if 1 hadn’t I might whistle 
for it now. I’m thinkin’.” 

“Mr. Ousely!” said Jenkinson, his +h1n lips 
trembling with anger, “ Mr. Ousely ! is there no 
law to punish such a villain ?” 

“ I tell you again,” said Phil, taking the word out 
of Ousely ’s mouth, “I tell you again, my good Bible- 
reader ! not to be callin’ sich hard names ! — except 
yourselves, an’ no one expects the thrutli from you, 
there isn’t man, woman, ot child for miles around 
Lough Corrib that would call Phil Maguire a 


LIFE IN GAL W AY. 


115 


villain ! As for the law, you may do your best. 
1 ha\'n’t done anything to make me afeard of it. 
You gave me the throuble of cornin’ up here, an’ I 
tould you before you done it, that I didn’t regard 
any man in fair play. You depend on havin’ his 
honor here to back you up in all your schamin’ 
villany — more shame for his father’s son to have 
anything to do with you — but I tell you again, here 
before his face, that while breath’s in my body. I’ll 
never see a fatherless or motherless child that I 
know ought to be a Catholic, inveigled into youi 
school, but I’ll have it out, or I’ll know for what. 
D’ye hear that now, Masther Jenkinson'?” 

“ Scoundrel !” cried Ousely, laying hold of Jen- 
kinson’s walking-stick, and brandishing it furiously, 
“ Scoundrel ! I’ll teach you to respect your betters 
— bv I’ll break your head, thick as it is !” 

“ Do, your honor,” said the imperturbable Phil, 
standing up, however, and placing himself on tlio 
defensive. “ Do, strike a man in your own house, 
an’ you sent for him on business. That will jist 
crown your charackter.” 

But all Phil’s rhetoric would not have prevented 
Ousely from striking him, had not Eleanor laid 
hold of the stick. Her father turned quickly to 
see who dared take such a liberty, for he had 
forgotten Eleanor’s presence, and on seeing his 
daughter, exclaimed : “ What the d — ^1 do you 
m^an, girl ? Let go the stick, I say !” 


116 


NEW lights; ok 


“ No, father, you must excuse me,” said Eleanor, 
quietly, though her cheek was covered with the 
burning blush of shame. “ I will not let go the 
stick for such a purpose. Give it to me, father 
you will thank me for this hereafter.” 

“ Get away with you, girl !” said the father, but 
ne gave up the stick, “ why do you interfere ? Am 
I to suffer myself and my friends to be insulted by 
every clown who chooses to forget the respect due 

to gentlemen ? D n it, Nell ! give me back 

the stick !” 

“By your leave, father, I will rather send it 
beyond your reaeh and mine !” She approached 
the open window, and sent the stick flying far over 
into the wood.' 

“ Miss Ousely !” said Jenkinson, “ I beg to 
remind you that that stick is mine, and I value 
it highly.” 

“ In that case, sir,” returned the young lady with 
a winning smile, “ you can have it by walking out 
.nto the wood — a little exercise is good for the 
health, you know.” Jenkinson looked sullen, but 
Ojsely could not refrain from echoing Phil Ma^ 
guire’g hearty laugh. 

“ W ell done. Miss Eleanor,” said the worthy- 
farmer, his honest face glowing with satisfaction, 
“ By the laws, that was well handled. I’m sure it 
would go hard with me when I’d raise hand or foot 
against the r iasther, afther all, but you saved me 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


in 


the throuble this time, long life to you, miss, an’ 
that you may never get the foolish notion into your 
head of makin’ Prof cstants out of I^apists. That’s 
as good a wish as I can make for you now, when 
most o’ the quality round here are goin’ mad about 
it.” Eleanor thanlied him for his good wish. 

“ Keep your prate to yourself,” said Ousely ; 
“ we’ve had too much of it already.” 

“ May I go, then, Mr. Ousely demanded Phil 
with comical gravity. 

“ You may, an’ be d d to you, but mind, if 

I ever have it in my power. I’ll pay you for this. 
We’ll see when rent-day comes, whether you’ll be 
on the same tune. It will soon come now !” 

“ Let it come when it may, your honor, I’m 
ready for it, thanks be to God ! I’ve your rent 
ready for you in Bank of Ireland notes. It isn’t 
poor Bernard O’Daly that’s in it, Mr. Ousely, 
awow !” 

“ Be off out of my sight, then,” cried Ousely, 
“ or I may still be tempted to do what I wouldn’t 
wish to do, in this house, at least !” 

“ Thrue for your honor — good bye. Miss Elea- 
nor !” and he bowed respectfully — “ may the Lord 
protect you this day and forever more, amen ! 
The back o’ my hand to you, Misther Jenkinson ! 
you made a poor fight of it, afther all — my soul 
to glory, but you did !” Then making another 
low bow to Mr. Ousely, he opened the door and 


118 


NEW lights; cr, 


walked out with as independent an air as if ha 
were the master of the house. 

“ What a d d sturdy old fellow he is 1” said 

Ousely, looking after him ; “ now there’s a man you 
can make nothing of, he’s just as unbending as an 
old oak.” 

“ A true emblem of his religion, father,” said 
Eleanor. “ I much fear that after all the expendi- 
ture and all the trouble, the people of Ireland, take 
them as a body, will be just as Catholic — nay, do. 
not frown so, dear father, I mean to say, as Popish 
as they now are, though you keep at them these 
fifty years to come I” 

“ You take good care, Eleanor !” said her father 
testily, “ that yon don’t fail in your efforts, for you 
malie none ; by the Lord Harry ! you’re a d — d 
queer girl, and I scarce know what to make of 
you !” 

“My dear Miss Ousely !” said Jenkinson, in his 
smooth oily tones, pulling up his shirt collar at the 
same time, “ My dear Miss Ousely ! it is danger- 
ous, exceedingly dangerous to entertain, or manifest 
any sort of sympathy for these Eomanists — they 
deserve none, my dear young lady !” 

“Indeed, Mr. Jenkinson 1” said Eleanor with 
ironical emphasis, “ why really now I did believe 
that there were some, good people amongst the Ca- 
f, holies^ and that they Imd a sort of claim on our com* 
passio.i and sympathy, inasmuch as that the hand of 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


lU 

the Lord weighs heavily upon them just now. But 
possibly I might have been mistaken, and I feel 
grateful to you, my good sir, for enlightening me !” 

Ousely looked from one to the other, scarcely 
knowing whether Eleanor was serious or not, but 
Jenkinson himself was keenly alive to the piercing 
irony of the young lady’s tone, still more than 
that of her words, and he bit his thin pale lip until 
it actually assumed a roseate hue, and, not daring 
to make any show of resentment, he fidgeted on 
his seat, and muttered something about the even- 
ing-drawing on. 

“ Why what the deuce hurry are you in 1” cried 
Ousely, who was already busily engaged examining 
some new fishing-tackle. “ What did Nell say to you 
that you look so blue on it — eh,Jenky — d — it, look 
up, man ! there’s money bid for you !” / 

“You are very good, sir, but — I know not how 
it is — Miss Eleanor ! your words are not what I 
would expect” — he shook his head. “ Ah, my dear 
young lady ! out of the fulness of the heart the 
mouth S 2 )eaJceth — so it is written !” 

“ What thed — 1, Nell — ” began her father. 

“ Never mind, my dear father ! — worthy Mr. 
Jenkinson, have no fears for me — I am sound to the 
core,” and she laughed merrily. “ In proof where 
of — as some of yourselves would say — I am going to 
pay you a visit to-mcrrow in your sanctorum — do 
you understand I” 


120 


NEW lights; or, 


“ Oh, of course I do,” said tho sc/iool mast'd 
though he looked somewhat puzzled. Do ycu 
indeed propose to honor my poor pla^e vdth a visit. 
Miss Ousely *?” 

“ If my dear father has no ohjcclion,” said 
Eleanor, turning to him. 

“ Objection !” cried Ousely, “ why, upon my 
honor and soul, Nell, I’m well pleased to hear you 
say so — I’ll go with you myself, by h — , just to 
see how the young Papist brood can act and talk 
like good Protestants.” 

“ You are very kind, sir,” said Eleanor, though 
in her own mind she determined that her father 
should not be of the party; then turning to Jen- 
kinson, who stood with his hat in his hand, and a 
cold smile on his sallow features, “ You have not 
seen your excellent friend, McGilligan, this after- 
noon 

“No, Miss Ousely,” said Jenkinson, with a 
piercing look, “that devoted Christian has not 
much time to spare for making visits.” 

“Of course he has not, Mr. Jenkinson! but I 
signified to him my intention of visiting your 
school and that of Miss Gregory to-morrow — you 
will have the school in readiness, as there are some 
of my friends going with me, and if you have no 
objection we shall examine the children. Good 
morning, Mr. Jenkinson !” 

“ Good morning. Miss Ousely, I am elevated 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


121 


and highly honored — yea, far beyond my pool 
deserts.” 

“ Oh, you are far too humble, my gcod sir !” 
said Eleanor with her own peculiar smile. “ Hu- 
mility, you know, is a Papist virtue, and would 
never do for a Bible Christian, especially a teacher 
— always keep up your own dignity, my dear sir, 
and liave what the pious Scotchman prayed for — 
a good opinion o’ yourseV — take my word for it, it 
is the be^st way to ensure success — good morning 
once more — father, it is drawing near five o’clock, 
dinner will soon be on the table !” 

When the door had closed on Eleanor’s graceful 
fi^rm, the two men stood looking at each other in 
silence, and it was not for some minutes that 
either spoke. 

“ What a comely young lady your daughter is. 
Mister Ousely !” said Jenkinson slowly, “ and a 
clear-sighted, quick-witted young lady, but” 

‘‘ But w^hat, sir demanded Ousely, almost 
fiercely. 

“ Why, dear me ! Mister Ousely, don’t be angry. 
1 was only going to say that I fear she does not 
inherit the fervent zeal which moves her father to 
do and attempt great things for the good cause — 
the Spirit tells me that she has not sought or found 
the Lord !” 

“ Then the Spirit tells you a confounded lie !” 

eturned Ousely, waxing wroth, “ for if Nell 
u 


122 


NEW lights; or, 


Ousely hasn’t found the Lord, as you say, then 1 
don’t know who has, by jingo ! my dear fellow, 
that girl’s worth half a score of your Bible-readers, 
and whatever she may choose to say now and then 
when she’s in the humor for quizzing, I don’t be- 
lieve there’s a better Christian or a sounder 
Protestant in the country !” 

“ Fm glad you think so, Mr. Ousely.” 

“ Think so ! I tell you, sir, I’m sure of it — that's 
your way out — your Spirit tells you, indeed !” 

“ But, Mr. Ousely, my very good sir !” said 
J enkinson, with unfeigned sorrow, “ I can assure 
you that I meant nothing, nothing hurtful to Miss 
Ousely; far be it from me, sir, to say, or insinuate, 
or even think anything but what is good of the 
young lady, whose talents and virtues, not to speak 
of her exceeding comeliness, are known and 
published, and commended all the country over. 
I only meant, my honored patron, that it might 
be well to advise the young lady, just between 
yourselves.” 

“The d — 1 you did ! I tell you what it is now, 
Jenkinson ! I wouldn’t speak to Eleanor on such 
a subject, no, not if the success of your missions 
depended on that one word. Why, man, my Nell 
could give chapter and verse for everything she 
does and says, and neither you nor myself could 
hold the candle to her — she knows and understands 
everything — aye ! everything ! a d d deal better 


LIFE IN GALWAF. 


123 


than I do, so no more about that, if you want to 
keep on good terms with me. Just let Eleanor 
alone, and be thankful when she shows any dispo- 
sition to interest herself in the missions ! Here, 
John ! John !” The servant put in his head. 
“Show Mr. Jenkinson out!” Not a w^ord more 
would he listen to, and the discomfited school-mas- 
ter could only give vent to his pent-up feelings by 
holding up his hands, and shaking his head, as ho 
passed through the hall with the servant, saying, 
as the latter opened the hall-door to let him out, 
“ They are all touched here, of a surety they are !” 
touching his own forehead as he spoke. 

“ Some of them are, at any rate,” replied John, 
as he closed the door after him, “ or they wouldn’t 
encourage the likes of you.” 

When Eleanor joined her mother in the dressing- 
room, she proceeded to give her an account of the 
scene she had just witnessed. “ Now what do you 
think, my dear mother,” she concluded, “ of this 
system of kidnapping children, for view it as we 
may, it amounts to that ?” 

“ My child,” said Mrs. Ousely, “ we are not to 
view these things with a merely human eye, let us 
view them as God views them.” 

“Well! and what then'?” demanded Eleanor 
with an arch smile ; “are we to suppose that God 
can ever sanction fraud in any shape or form !” 

“ Oh ! of course not, my dear, but then, you 


124 


KETV lights; or, 


know — in short, Eleanor ! I can scarcely justify 
this particular instance, but I am confident that 
Mrs. Perkins meant well, and if ever deceit can 
be harmless, it is when practised in the cause ol 
religion. The whole success of the mission de- 
pends on having the training of the rising generation, 
and any means are justifiable that tend to secure 
that most important end.” 

“ Well, mother ! there is little use in arguing 
the question now — for my part I have doubts, and 
very serious doubts, as to the usefulness of these 
schools, and I am not at all prepared to justify 
proceedings which I believe, on the contrary, to be 
wholly unwarrantable. I have no idea of such 
India-rubber consciences, that can be made to suit 
any emergency, or rather expediency. However, 
here is John — coming to announce dinner, I dare 
say !” 

“ Yes, miss, dinner’s on the table, and the mas- 
t'^r is waiting.” 

“ Come then, mother !” said Eleanor, “ take my 
arm, and let us go down.” 

“ Mind you don’t say anything to your father 
about the schools, Eleanor !” 

“ Oh, never fear, mother ! you know I very 
seldom speak to my father on such subjects — and 
when 1 come to think of it — what a day we have had 
nf H with these hum! ugs — I beg paidon, mother I” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


125 


she quickly added, “ I mean these worthy people 
who follow the godly pursuit of proselytizing — ” 

“ Proselytizing, Eleanor 1” 

“ Oh ! another slip of the tongue. I mean, 
waging war on Popery, naughty giant that he is ! 
pulling him by the legs and tugging away at the 
skirts of his huge coat, and then crying out, might 
and main, that they are killing him !” and Eleanor 
laughed at the ludicrous image presented to her 
mind. 

“ Dear Eleanor !” said her mother, “how strange- 
ly you do talk at times !” 

“Why, surely, ma’am, surely, as worthy Master 
McGilligan would say — truth is always strange 
amongst evangelical people ! Did you never know 
that before] But here we are — so no more at 
present,” and she opened the dining-room door, 
where her father was already growing impatient, 
“ for those confounded fellows,” said he, “ have kept 
me so busy all day tbat I have not had time to 
take my usual luncheon ! Upon my honor and 
word, they’re enough to drive a man mad with their 
rascally squabbles !” 

The ladies smiled assent, and the trio took their 
places at the table, where we shall leave them, and 
take a glance at Larry Colgan’s little domicile, to 
see what is going on there. The tall gate-keeper 
had just put his spade in its usual place behind the 
door, and taking a pipe from his w'aistcoat-pocket 
11 * 


I2C 


NEW lights; or, 


drew a stool to the fire and sat down. His wife, 
a rosy-faced, happy-looking personage, precisely 
what Lord Byron would call “ a dumpy w'oman,’' 
was sitting spinning flax at a little distance, beguil- 
ing the time with an old melancholy ditty which 
he sang in a low monotonous voice, when the door 
opened and in walked our old acquaintance Granny 
Mulligan, her bag on her back and her staff in her 
hand. 

“ God save all here !” said the old woman. 

“ God save you kindly, honest w^oman !” re- 
turned Peggy Colgan, suspending her employment ; 
“ won’t you come by an’ sit dowm ] Have you tra- 
velled far the day 

“Not very far — only over from Bernard 
O’ Daly’s ! But don’t you know me V’ Here 
both husband and wife looked more closely, for the 
light was already wearing dim, and both started to 
their feet ! “ Why, then, tare-an-ages ! Granny 

Mulligan, is it yourself that’s in it — why, woman 
dear ! how’s every teather’s length of you ?” 

“ W ell, I can’t complain, Larry ! thanlcs be to 
God for it ! You needn’t trouble yourself, Peggy 
aJmgur^ to be puttin’ away my bag !” 

“ No? why then, to be sure you’ll stay all night, 
granny — of course you must !” 

“ I would and welcome, Peggy dear, only I pro- 
niised, God willin’, to be back at Bernard O’Daly’s 
frfore bed-time — God help them, they’re in the 


LIFE IN GALWAF. 


127 


height o’ trouble, the craturs ! for poor Ilonora’a 
taken very bad. Still they wouldn’t hear o’ me 
goin’ anywhere- else to lodge !” 

“ Why, Lord bless me !” said Larry, “ it must 
be very suddenly that Honora was taken sick, foi 
she was up at the Hall this very mornin’.” 

“ I know she was, Larry, an’ it was the unlucky 
journey for her — you know she was in the worst of 
health this many’s the day, but walkin’ so far this 
mornin’, and the way that Misther Ousely spoke 
to her — -just as if she was a dog — an’ worst of all 
his offerin’ to give a clear quittance if the family 
would turn Prodestan’.” 

“ An’ did the masther say that to her !” de- 
manded Larry, taking the pipe from his mouth, 
and holding it suspended between his finger and 
thumb. “ Did he mention the likes o’ that to Mrs. 
O’Ddy r 

“ Indeed then he did, Larry acushla P’’ 

“ Well, by my sowkins !” cried the gate-keeper 
v ith honest indignation, “ that’s the hardest thing 
he done yet. Oh, now that bates Banagher, and 
the devil to boot. I knew very well that he’d do 
nothing for her, an’ that may be he’d tell her the 
raison plainly — bekase of the family bein’ sich 
good warm Catholics — but I hadn’t the laste notion 
that he’d hint sich a thing as turnin’ to her or hers. 
Oh ! then, Peggy dear ! was’nt that a hard turn 
to do 


in 


NEW J.IGIITS; OR, 


“ Hard !” said Peggy, “ why I tell you there’s 
nothing too hard or too hot or too heavy for them 
Bible-readers, for it’s them that’s puttin’ all this in 
the masther’s head. Sure don’t we all remember 
when he wasn’t half so bad as he is now — he’d 
give you a rally, to be sure, if you hadn’t the rent 
with you, but then it was soon over, an’ he’d give 
you time, an’ he wouldn’t make a bit difference 
atween’ Prodestan’ an’ Catholic, but from the day 
he got in with that thievin’ crew he wasn’t the 
same man. Och, indeed, but it’s myself that’s 
heart sorry for poor Honora O’Daly, an’ good right 
I have, for, before Larry an’ myself struck up to- 
gether, I lived for two years on her flure, an’ a 
better misthress I never sarved a day to.” 

“ An’ then she had sich a pride out of her family,” 
observed granny, “ bekase they were so good an’ 
so pious, an’ them so comfortable about only a 
year or two back.” Granny stopped to wipe her 
eyes, an’ Peggy’s were not dry. “ You see,” con- 
tinued the old woman, “ she thought it ’ud soften 
the masther’s heart when she crept up to the Hall, 
an’ her so feeble, an’ so she stole out afore any o’ 
the men was stirrin’ in the mornin’ — but wdien 
herself aiP Bridget came back” — 

“ I sent them back in Jack Connor’s cart, that I 
got a loan of,” interposed Larry, “ but I thought 
it was only tired that the poor woman w’as !” 

“ I know, — I know , — acushla ! — well ! as I 


was 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


129 


sayin’, when they came back, poor Honcra had to 
go to bed, ail’ the whole was found out, an’ there’s 
black trouble in the house, for they all know well 
that Ilonora will never stand on green grass.” 

“ God comfort them this night !” ejaculated Peg- 
gy, as she arose and busied herself about the supper. 
“ At any rate, granny, y ou’ll stay an’ have some 
supper with us.” 

“Why, then, I will, Peggy astore! an’ thank 
you kindly for the offer ; to tell you the truth, I came 
out on the intention of takin’ my supper wherever 
I’d be first asked, for though I’m as welcome now 
in Bernard O’Daly ’s corner, an’ to take my share 
of what’s goin’ as ever I was, still I can’t bring 
myself to do it, for I know — och ! och ! I do — ■ 
that there’s far from bein’ plenty even for them- 
selves. But still ni go back, plase God, for I 
want to sit up with Honora the night.” 

“ Well ! but you’ll stop a night or two with us 
afore you go, won’t you, granny 1” 

“ Oh ! indeed then I will, an’ glad to be asked, 
it’s not every house that we’re invited to lodge in 
now-a-days.” 

“ That’s thrue enough, granny,” said Larry, 
“ but never mind, there’s enough o’ the ould stock 
left yet to give you a hearty welcome wherever 
you go. Come now, let us fall to !” 

When supper was over, the kind-hearted Peggy 
put a good dish of oatmeal into granny’s bag 


130 


NEW lights; or, 


“ Now what are you doin’ that for, woman dear 1” 
said the beggarwoman, as she snatched at the bag, 
“I didn’t want to take anything from you, afther 
gettin’ my good supper.” 

“Well, but listen here, avichP"^ and Peggy 
whispered her words into granny’s ear, for fear 
the children should overhear her ; “ you say there’s 
scarcity, an’ I know there is, where there ought to 
be full an’ plenty ; now, I wouldn’t affront them by 
sendin’ anything to them, but can’t you jist W'atch 
your opportunity, when none o’ them’s lookin’, an’ 
put this with their meal, wherever they keep it. 
Can’t you do that now 

“Ay! indeed can I, Peggy! God bless you, 
xtcmhla machree! for the kind, good thought, an’ 
may He increase your store !” 

Larry pretended to be wholly engrossed with 
his pipe, and never turned his head till the old 
woman bid him ‘ good night.’ 

“ Good night, an’ God be wdth you, granny ; 
you’ll be over the morrow, won’t you ? but at any 
rate, Peggy or myself will take a race down to 
see poor Mrs. O’Daly !” 

“ Declining Larry’s offer of going a piece with 
her, granny Mulligan grasped her oaken cudgel 
and st^pt out into the darkness, for the night had 
closed in, dark and moonless. When Larr^ had 
closed the gate behind her, and returned into his 
lodge, an uncomfortable sense of utter loneliness 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


131 


Degan to steal over the sturdy old woman, and, 
for the first time in her life, she felt something like 
fear. Not that granny Mulligan was afraid of the 
surrounding darkness, or of any bodily evil 
befalling her, but still there was a chill creeping 
over her, and though she battled bravely against 
it, there was no getting rid of it, do what she would. 
The whole secret was, that she had to pass by a 
burying-ground on her way to Bernard O’Daly’s, 
and what made the matter worse, it was the burial 
ground belonging to the Episcopal Church. “ Now 
if it was our own sort that was in it,” said she to 
herself, “I wouldn’t be much afeard, for them 
that’s anointed with the holy oil, an’ gets the rites 
o’ the Church at their last hour, won’t do any one 
harm, even if God allowed them to come back 
again, to get any little matter settled that might 
be troublin’ them, but then it’s a different thing to 
pass by w'here the Prodestans are, sich a night as 
this, without a livin’ sowl with me. Bedad, I’ll 
go back and get Larry to come with me, afther 
all.” 

She was just turning on her heel to go back, 
when she heard the avenue gate open, and then 
the pit-pat of more than one pair of small feet, 
and to her great joy she heard Larry Colgan’s 
eldest boy calling to her. 

“Here I am, Thady astore! what’s wrong with 
V'ou, avickT'' 


132 


NEW lights: or 


“ Nothir g at all, granny,” said the boy, coining 
up close to her on one side, while his younger 
brother caught hold of her cloak on the other 
“nothing at all, only daddy an’ mammy sent 
Peter an’ me afther you, for fear you’d be lone- 
some, an’ bekase you had to pass the Prodestan’ 
grave-yard.” 

“ Hut, tut !” said granny, affecting great bravery, 
“ what harm would them that’s in it do me 1 I never 
done them any harm.” 

“ Oh ! but some o’ them might appear to you, 
you know, an’ if you’d see any o’ them, you’d 
never get over the fright ; dear knows but they’d 
kill you ; them Prodestan’ ghosts are evil sperits, 
mammy says 1” 

“ Well I know that, avick! but how are you an’ 
Peter to get back 

“ Oh ! daddy’s cornin’ down to see how Mrs. 
O’Daly is, an’ we’re to stay there till he comes.” 

“ W ell ! if that’s the case, children, let us go on 
in the name of God.” 

Por a few minutes they walked on without 
speaking, but the children were awed by the deep 
silence and the darksome night, and Thady begged 
of granny to tell them a story, ‘jist to pass the 
time.’ 

So granny began the story, nothing loth to 
^ear herself talk, and the tedium of the road 
was ^kus bcgu'ied, till the moon began to peep from 


LtfE in GALWAY. 


132 


behind a gauzy cloud, and her first beams glittered 
on the spire of the Church, now in sight. 

“ God grant us the light of heaven !” said gran, 
ny ; “ there’s the moon, an’ a purty bright moon she 
is.” 

“ Ay ! but there’s the grave-yard, too,” said the 
elder boy, and both the children clung close and 
closer to the old woman. “Look how the white 
headstones are standin’ up, jist like ghosts.” 

“ Don’t be afeard, children, don’t be afeard — 
bless yourselves now, and then you needn’t fear all 
the divils in hell.” 

On they went, and still the spectral-looking 
grave-stones grew whiter and whiter in the moon- 
light, and the shade of the old yew-trees inside the 
wall fell deeper and darker across the graves. 

“ If a body could only pray for them,” said 
granny with a sigh, “ there would be some comfort 
in that ; but, ochone ! isn’t it a lonesome thing to 
lie there without one to offer up a prayer for 
them, an’ every body afeard o’ their lives to pass 
them by % Livin’ or dead, children, it’s a poor 
thing to be a Prodestan’.” 

“ Granny dear !” whispered Peter, “ do you see 
anything at the gate there 

“No, I don’t,” said granny, though her own 
voice trembled ; “ don’t you see it’s the shadow o 
the tree agin the gate pier. What did you think 
it was, agrah f’ 


13 


NEW lights; or, 


m 

“ Why I thought it might be the ghost of Tom 
Connor, the Jumper. They say he appears in the 
shape of a big black dog, with fire cornin’ out 
of his mouth an’ eyes.” 

“ The Lord save us !” said granny, making the 
sign of the cross devoutly on her forehead. “ An’ 
did Tom die a Prodestan’1” 

“ He did, an’ was buried here about two months 
agone.” 

“ Avoch ! avoch ! but it’s jist what I’d expect 
from him, he was ever an’ always a bad mimber. 
God knows but the counthry was well rid of him 
when he went — thanks be to God, it’s only him an’ 
the likes of him that dies sich a death as that. 
But now we’re past t?.ie grave-yard, children, an’ 
we’ll soon be at the house. Step out now, for I’m 
a long time away, an’ maybe I’m a wantin’ befcie 
this.” 


CHAPTER VIL 


Learning, that cobweb of the brain, 

Profane, eroneous, and vain ; 

A trade of knowledge, as replete 
As others are with fraud and cheat • 

An art t’ encumber gifts and wit, 

And render both for nothing fit. — B' jt. kr’s Hudibrna- 

Mrs. Ousely and her daughter set out on the 
following morning to visit the schools, according 
to promise, and by a little exertion of Eleanor’s 
tact, her father remained at home. When the 
carriage reached the gate-lodge, Larry Colgan 
stood ready with his huge key, and when he had 
thrown the gate wide open, he sidled up to Elea- 
nor. 

“ Good morning, Larry I” said the young laOy, 
W'hile her mother nodded and smiled ; “ 1 hope 
you are all in good health hereT’ 

“ All w^ell, thank God an’ you. Miss — bad maf 
ners to you, Ben ! can’t you take it easy — what a 
hurry you’re in this morning ! If you’re not in 
too great a hniry, Miss Eleanor, I’d be makin* 
free to ask you to stop a minnit — the re’s a person 
inside that wants to spake to you.” 

“ To me, Larry T’ 


m 


NEW LIGUTS; OK, 


“ Yes, Miss, to you, if it’s plasin’ to you.” 

“ But wha: does the person want with me — ^whjr 
not come out and speak to me here V’ 

Larry came up close to the carriage, and said in 
a low voice : “ Sure it’s Kathleen O’Daly that 
wants to see you — she dar’nt go up to the house 
for fear of meetin’ the master.” 

“ Oh ! if that be all,” said Eleanor, smiling, 
there is no need of secrecy, Larry ! My mother 
is just as much interested about the O’Dalys as I 
am. It is Kathleen O’Daly, mother.” 

“ Go in. then, my dear daughter, and see what 
she wants. Poor girl ! she need not have con- 
cealed herself from me. Make haste, Eleanor, 1 
shall wait for you. I am really anxious to hear 
how Mrs. O’Daly is this morning.” 

When Eleanor entered the lodge, she found 
Peggy Colgan doing her best to comfort poor 
Kathleen, who sat with her eyes fixed on the door 
in breathless anxiety, apparently too much intent 
on her own sad thoughts to pay much attention to 
Peggy’s well-meant truisms. The minute she saw 
Eleanor, her eyes filled with tears, and starting to 
her feet, she clasped her hands with convulsive 
energy : “ Ah ! I knew you’d come in. Miss Elea- 
nor! I knew you would — may the Lcrd bless 
you and protect you from all harm I My mother’s 
dying. Miss Eleanor, dear; and we have nothing 
to comfort her poor we-ik heart. W 3 can’t hide it 


LIFE IN 0 VLWAY. 


]31 


RMy lo\iger, Miss Eleanor ; and as none of our 
neighbors can do anything for us, I thought I’d 
come up and make application, where I knew there 
was both the vnll and the way'"* 

My dear Kathleen,” said Eleanor, taking her 
hand kindly, “ I trust your mother is not in such 
immediate danger as your fears would make her. 
Take courage ; she may yet recover.” 

“Never, never. Miss Eleanor !” said Kathleen, 
with a fresh burst of grief, “ she is dying — dying. 
Oh ! indeed she is — and it’s she that was the good, 
kind mother!” 

“ Kathleen !” said Eleanor, earnestly, and even 
solemnly, “ I fear you must blame one whom I am 
bound to love and honor, for hurrying on this sad 
catastrophe. Tell me, Kathleen, is it not so 1” 

“ My dear Miss Eleanor, don’t trouble yourself 
about that,” exclaimed Kathleen, with sudden 
energy ; “ my poor mother was declining this many 
a long day. Indeed she was. Miss ; and if she did 
get worse since- -since then — ” she stopped a mo- 
ment, as if to control her feelings — “ No, we don’t 
blame any one. Miss Eleanor ; we take this new 
trial from the hands of God, and we bear it for Ills 
sake. Oh ! God forbid,” she raised her mild 
blue eyes to heaven, “ God forbid that we’d owe 
any one a spite.” 

“Well, Kathleen,” said Eleanor, wiping away 

the tears that would rush out, “ you may go home 
12 * 


138 


NEW lights; or, 


now — don’t be afraid that yoiir mother shall want 
anything. W e are going out for an hour or two ; 
but as soon as I get home, I will see that every* 
thing needful is se^t. How is my little favorite, 
Eveleen 

“ She is very well, Miss, thanks to you for ask- 
ing, but there’s none of us in greater trouble than 
she is — poor child ; well she may be in trouble 
— she’s going to lose the best friend ever she had, 
or will have.” 

“ Good bye, then, Kathleen, I’ll try to see your 
mother very soon. Good morning, Peggy, how 
are the children 1” 

“ In good health. Miss, thanks be to God for it.” 

When Eleanor rejoined her mother, she related 
what had passed, and Mrs. Ousely was much 
shocked to hear that Honora was so ill. Her lip 
trembled with emotion, as she said, 

“ Poor Honora ! I fear her disease is a broken 
heart.” 

“ It is nothing else, my dear mother. Now, Ben, 
drive on, time is passing. ” 

“ I thought we were to have had Amelia Dixon 
with us, Eleanor? Did she not say^ yesterday 
that she would go ?” 

“ Yes, mother, she was to meet us at the cross- 
roads at eleven o’clock. We must make haste, 
Den, for Miss Dixon may be waiting.” Smack 
went Ben’s whip, and off went the horses at a 


LIFE IN GALWAY, 


139 


brisk trot, but they had gone only a little way 
down the road when a horseman dashed up at full 
speed, and reined in his prancing steed along side 
of the carriage. 

“ Good morning. Miss Ousely !” said he, in a 
voice whose modulated tones bespoke the gentle- 
man. “ Oh ! your mother here too ; good morning, 
Mrs. Ousely, I hope I see you in good health 
to-day !” 

“Tolerably good, I thank you. Sir James !” said 
Mrs. Ousely, leaning forward to shake hands with 
the stranger. “Were you going up to the hall, 
or where 

“ I am in a charitable mood this morning,” 
replied the baronet, as he exchanged a meaning 
smile with Eleanor, “ so I propose to visit the 
schools with you, provided you have no objection.” 

“Oh! certainly not. Sir James! we shall be 
happy to have your company. But where is Ame- 
lia 'i she promised to come, did she not 1” 

“ Oh ! as to the promise,” said Sir James, with an 
arch smile that well became his dark, Spanish-looking 
features, “my cousin xVmelia has changed her 
mind, and deputed me . to come in her place. She 
craves your pardon, and hopes to see you soon. 
Why so serious this morning, Miss Ousely ? are 
you framing your interrogatories 

“ Not so, Sir James!” said Eleanor, looking up 
for the first time, “ I will '•rust to the occasion for 
12 * 


140 


NEW lights; or, 


suggesting them— there is inspiration .'n Mr. Jen 
kinson’s face !” she added with sly humor. “ I 
was just thinking of Amelia’s message, and 
wondering why she changed her mind.” Thero 
was a meaning in her words that was not lost upon 
Sir James. 

“ I am sorry, on your account, that my cousin 
has not kept her promise,” said he with some 
bitterness ; “ but even if she had, it is probable 
that you should still have had the present incum- 
brance, for the temptation was too great to be 
resisted. You know how desirous I am of gaining 
all possible information concerning this great 
movement.” 

Eleanor raised her eyes again to the young 
man’s face, and though she spoke not a word, yet 
he felt satisfied ; that glance said more than words. 

“ What a changeful sky is this of yours !” said 
the baronet, as he gracefully reined in his impatient 
charger to keep beside the carriage, “ how beauti- 
ful are these sudden transitions from cloud to 
sunshine, and how many charms do they not bestow 
on the features of the country, lovely and varied 
as they are of themselves !” 

“ Yes !” said Eleanor, “ our sky is just the one 
to overhang a Celtic nation — there is as much va- 
riety in the character of our people, wdien you 
come to stuiy them, as there is in our shifting 
firmament. Believe me, you will find many 


LlPjS IN GALWAY. 


141 


beautiful virtues and many sterling qualities 
amongst the unsophisticated peasantry. They are 
a people to be loved, ay ! and honored, let their 
traducers say what they will !” 

“My dear Eleanor!” said her mother, “you 
speak warmly. Sir James, with his cool English 
reason, must think it strange to hear you talk so 
of these poor benighted Irish, \\ho are little de- 
serving of respect, not to say honor, in their 
present degraded state. If this great work now 
in hands can only be made to succeed, then they 
may become respectable ; were they only disen- 
tangled from the meshes of Popery, we might 
have hopes of them ! You must excuse my 
daughter. Sir James ! she is young and enthusias- 
tic 1” 

“ The apology is scarcely needed, my dear 
madam 1” said Sir James, whose eyes were fixed 
admiringly on Eleanor’s blushing fece. “My 
English reason is not so cool but that I, too, can 
admire the truly Celtic virtues of the Irish, and 
sympathize with their manifold wrongs! It is 
precisely because I can and do that I am here now. 
I have heard and read much that is both good and 
bad concerning the Irish people, properly so called, 
and I have crossed the channel in order to see and 
iudge for myself.” 

“ Indeed, Sir James f ’ exclaimed the eider lady 
“ why, who would have thought it 


\42 


NEW lights; or, 


“ I, for one, mother,” said Eleanor with a smile, 
“I partly guessed as much.” The young gentle- 
man smiled, too, and his dark eyes sparkled with 
pleasure. He was evidently pleased to find that 
Eleanor so far understood him, for he had never 
before spoken to her of his object in visiting 
Ireland. He had not time to make any reply, 
when Eleanor exclaimed : “ See, yonder is the 
school-house. Sir James ! the Alma mater of the 
Jumpers in these parts ! How purely white it is, 
something like the whitened sepulchres mentioned 
in Scripture, I fear !” 

“ Eleanor, my dear !” said her mother, in a tone 
of reproof. 

“ I beg its pardon, and yours, my dear mother,” 
said Eleanor, laughing, while Sir James turned 
his head away, lest Mrs. Ousely should see him 
smile ; “ That is, if the comparison be offensive to 
you.” 

“ You are an incorrigible girl,” said her mother, 
with a faint sigh. 

“ Call me anything you please, my dear mother, 
except a hypocrite.” 

Just at this moment the carriage stopped in 
front of the school-house, and out came the long, 
thin visage of Jenkinson, at the door, then his 
whole gaunt frame sidled out after it, and with 
many a bow, and many a grave smile, he welcomed 
his distinguished visitors. He was stepping for 


LIFE IN GAI WA F. 


143 


ward to offer his hand to Eleanor, but Sir James 
sprang lightly from his horse, and saying, “Excuse 
me, sir,” he gracefully assisted the ladies to alight. 
Jenkinson was half inclined to resent the stranger’s 
interference, but when he cast a cursory glance 
over his tall, commanding figure, and marked the 
dignity of his demeanor, he shrank back into him- 
self, muttering, “ Second thoughts are best.” 

“Will you be good enough to lead the way into 
your school-room, Mr. Jenkinson ?” said Mrs. 
Ousely. “ Of course you are prepared to admit 
us.” 

“ Oh ! certainly, ma’am, certainly ; will you con 
descend to walk this way 

“ So this is the potentate who holds dominion 
here 1” said the baronet to Eleanor, in a low voice, 
as they walked in side by side. 

“ Yea, verily, this is the righteous, and evangeli- 
cal, and popery-hating, and Bible-loving instructor 
of youth, placed here as a light amid darkness,” 
said Eleanor, imitating Jenkinson’s own prolix ver- 
biage. “ You stare,” she added, laughingly. “ But 
you will soon cease to wonder at the superfluity 
of words w’herewith I do eulogise our excellent pe- 
dagogue. Be silent now, good sir, that you may 
hear ; for, of a surety, Jenkinson is about to hold 
forth.” 

‘‘ Mr. Dalton,” said he to his usher, a pale, effe- 


U4 NEW LIOHIS; OR, 

minate-looking young man, “ Mr. Dalton, the boys 
have not yet recited their scripture lesson.” 

“ No, sir, they are just preparing it.” 

“Very good, Mr. Dalton, let us have it now. 
Ladies, will you condescend to sit down. Sir,” to 
Sir James, “ will you be pleased to take a seat 1” 
The visitors being duly settled in their respec- 
tive places, the master took his station near Mrs. 
Ousely, and the pale-faced usher stepped up on a 
sort of dais and commanded the boys to close their 
books. The order was instantly obeyed, some of 
the poor, starved-looking urchins taking a last peep 
before they closed their testaments. 

“ Now commence,” said Dalton. “ The fourteenth 
chapter and first verse, of John. Peter O’Malley, 
you say the first verse.” • 

Peter did say his verse, and the others followed 
in turn, until the whole of that mysterious chap- 
ter was said ; some few of the boys making sad 
work of it, but in general they said their verses 
correctly. When the lesson was ended, Jenkinson 
turned to his visitors, with the air of a man who 
expected a compliment. Mrs. Ousely was de- 
lighted, and told Mr. Jenkinson that he was doing 
more to overthrow Popery, than the whole Bible 
Society and Tract Society put together. 

“ You are very good to say so, Mrs. Ousely,” 
9aid Jenkinson putting on a very modest air. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


145 


“ Wliat do you think, sir ? — I am at a loss, ma’am, 
for this gentleman’s name.” 

‘‘ Sir James Trelawney.” 

Jenkinson bowed very low. 

“ J hope you are pleased with the boys. Sir 
James V 

“ They have said their lesson well,” replied the 
baronet, somewhat drily. 

“ Oh ! but you must hear them examined, in 
order to judge of the progress they have made. 
Lawrence O’Sullivan.” 

“Well, sir,” said a little chubby-faced boy, 
about eight years old, as he raised himself to a 
standing posture. 

“ What is Popery, Larry 1” 

“ Popery, sir 1” Larry scratched his head, and 
kept looking at the boy next him, who said some- 
thing in a low voice. 

“ Popery’s the great delu — ” another look at his 
neighbor — “ the great delusion, sir !” 

Larry looked much relieved when the last sylla- 
ble was out. 

“Very well answered,” said Jenkinson; “now 
tell us what is the great delusion — you, Terence 
Landrigan I” 

“ It’s Popery, sir !” Eleanor and the baronet 
exchanged smiles. ^ 

“Very good indeed. Now, Terence, when you’ve 
done so well, just tell us who is Antichrist !” 


146 


NEW LIGflrS; CR 


“ The Pope, sir !” 

“ Right again ! and can you tell me who was 
Luther 

“ Luther, sir ? Luther was” — Terence’s mcimo- 
ry was evidently at fault. 

“ Go on, you blockhead, who was Luther f ’ 

“ The — the — the man of sin, sir !” 

“Sit down, sir!” cried Jenkinson angrily. 
“That’s the pope you mean.” Eleanor pretended 
to use her handkerchief, and Sir James maliciously 
said to Mrs. Ousely, “ what a smart lad he is ! 
W'onderfully wise for his age 1” 

“ Miles O’Callaghan ! stand up there 1” Miles 
WAS a tall thin lad of some ten or twelve years old. 
“ What was the Inquisition, Miles ?” 

“ A place where good men and women were 
tortured, and put to death for their religion !” 

“ Very good indeed, Miles ! and who were these 
good people 

“ Protestants, sir 1” 

“ Many of them Jews !” said Eleanor in a low 
voice to Sir James, w'ho nodded assent. 

“Right, Miles, right. And who put them to 
death, and burned them up I” 

“ Priests and monks, sir 1” 

“ Right again. Miles. Well ! now can you tell 
me what is confession 
“ Yes, sir ! it is an humble accusation of 
self began Miles. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


n't 


“ What are you saying, you stupid fellow 

“ Why, that’s what’s in the catechism, sir !” 

“ Yes ! in the priest’s catechism !” said Jenkin- 
»on ; then raising his voice higher, “ can’t you tell 
me what confession is 

“ Why, sir, I was tollin’ you, an’ you wouldn’t 
let me.” 

“ Sit down ! J ohn McS weeny !” 

“Sir!” 

“Who was Queen Elizabeth?” 

“ Quid Harry’s daughter, sir !’ 

“ Henry the Eighth, you mean !” said Jenkinsosi 
sternly. 

“ Yes, sir !” 

“ What did she do, J ohn ?” 

“ She ripped open the priests, and cut the beads 
off o’ them, sir, an’ hunted them out o’ the coun- 
try, sir.” 

“ Hush ! J ohn 1” said Dalton eagerly ; “ that’? 
not the answer, you’re wrong !” 

“ Why, that’s what I heard my father readin 
out of a book about her !” said John, boldly. 

“Put him down to the foot!” cried Jenkinson, 
his face purple with rage. “ It is a hard, and » 
never-ending, and an arduous task,” he added^ 
turning to the visitors, “ to get these Romish chil- 
dren to learn anything !” 

“ 1 do not at all doubt it,” replied Eleanor, re* 
pressing a smile. 


NEW lights; or, 


i4S 

“Will ycu allow me to ask the boys a few 
questions, Mr. Jenkinson T’ said Sir James. 

“ Certainly, sir !” returned the schoolmaster, 
though he and his subordinate exchanged looks 
that showed their minds ill at ease. “ Stand up all 
of you, children.” 

The baronet cast a searching glance over the 
long lines of anxious little faces before he spoke, 
and then selecting those who seemed most intelli- 
gent, he put a few leading questions on the great 
truths of religion. Alas ! he could get no satis- 
factory answer, except now and then when memory 
brought back to some of the older boys the almost 
forgotten teaching of the priest. Thus Sir James 
had asked several boys the question, “Tor what 
end were we created 1” and when, at last, the 
answer came, “ To know, love, and serve God, 
and to be happy with Him forever,” the boy 
concluded with “Tliat’s what our own catechism 
says, sir !” 

“ And it says right, my boy !” said Sir James, 
patting him on the head. “That will do, Mr. 
Jenkinson ! we are but trespassing on your time.” 

“ But will you not hear the boys sing a hymn, 
sir, before you go ? Those questions which you 
put to them are not those which we generally ask 
them, so that they were somewhat put about, but 
you must hear them sing!” Sir James bowed 
assent, and the ladies resumed their places. 


LIFE IN GALWAY, 


149 


The hymn was one of thanksgiving for the special 
favor of being “ snatched from the burning,” and 
when it was ended and duly praised, the copy-books 
&c. were exhibited, and then the visitors were 
ushered into the female school kept by Miss 
Gregory, where a similar scene was gone through, 
only that Eleanor, instead of Sir James, examined 
the girls, and then, having given some money to 
the respective teachers to be distributed amongst 
the children, the ladies were shown to their car- 
riage, and, the baronet mounted his ‘ gallant grey,’ 
nothing loth to effect his escape from the school- 
house. He had not moved a step, however, when 
Jenkinson laid his hand on the horse’s neck, and 
said, “ A word with yow, sir, before you go !” 

“ Well, sir, what is it 

“ You’re from England, sir, as I understand.” 

“ y es — wnat then 

“ I would ask you. Sir James Trelawney, to use 
your influence, when you return home, in behalf of 
this most glorious and most interesting work — the 
conversion of the Irish Papists — which is, or ought 
to be, exceedingly dear to every philanthropic 
heart. Oh ! sir, if you are a Christian, you will 
urge your friends and acquaintances to contribute 
their mite in support of a cause so important in 
the eyes of God and man !” 

“ Be assured I shall make honorable mention 
of your arduous endeavors,” replied Sir James, 


160 


NEW LiaHTS; OR, 


evasively. “ In the meantime^ suffer me to follow 
the ladies, who are leaving me far behind. Good 
morning, sir !” 

Away rode Sir J ames Trelawney, and J enkinsoii 
stood gazing after him for some minutes, then 
slowly turning into the house, he said to himself, 
with a heavy sigh : “ He is no great friend to us — 
that I can see with half an eye. I much fear that 
he is a Jesuit in disguise. What a pity that he is 
such a noble-looking personage — he may be a Ro- 
mish bishop for all I know — but then he is too 
young — some of those English grandees, I suppose, 
who have lately gone over to Rome !” Then going 
into the school-room, he called for his large ruler, 
and began, by way of revenging his disappointment, 
to punish some of the boys who had given Popish 
answers to the questions put by Sir James. 

Meanwhile, the baronet had overtaken the car- 
riage, and was asked by Mrs. Ousely, what he 
thought of the schools. “ Is it not truly encouraging,” 
she said, “ to see so many Romish children of both 
sexes conducted into the fold of truth — ” 

“ Pardon me, madam !” said Trelawney, “ I am 
far from seeing this matter as you do. I much 
fear that instead of getting into the fold of truth, 
they are getting out of it. I was grievously disap* 
pointed this day, for I find, that so far from being 
taught anything solid or useful, they are only filling 
their minds with trash — the old stale abuse of Po* 


LIFE IN GALWAT. 


161 


pery — as they are made to call the religion of their 
fathers — which may do them no good, but much 
harm.” 

“ Well ! well ! Sir James,” said Mrs. Ousely, in 
a somewhat peevish tone, “ J cannot see these things 
as you and Eleanor see them — I, at least, have no 
leaning towards Popery, that might bias my judg- 
ment — I see matters as they really are.” 

“Yes, but you look through old Protestant spec- 
tacles, my dear mother ! There, you’ve a pair o* 
them on at this present moment, which are at least 
a hundred years old. Those old ascendancy glasses, 
Sir James, are an heir-loom in my mother’s family, 
and came to her from an excellent old uncle and 
aunt who brought her up.” 

Trelawney smiled, but said nothing, not knowing 
how Mrs. Ousely might take the remark. The 
good lady was half inclined to be angry, but when 
she looked at Eleanor’s smiling face, the anger eva- 
porated, and she merely said : “ You grow worse 
and worse every day, my dear daughter ! I scarce 
know how to manage you.” 

“Manage me as you please, my dear, kind 
mother,” said Eleanor, gaily, “ only don’t put the 
Protestant spectacles on me — let me look with the 
eyes that God gave me, undimmed by human pre- 
judice. Now, Sir James Trelawney,” she added, 
turning to him, “ I know you are a seeker after 
truth, and that you are studying the character 


Ui NEW lights; ok, 

ou/ .jreople under a religious point of view — am I 
net right 

“ Perfectly so,” said Trelawney, with a slight 
bov/. 

Then I will just ask you to accompany us in a 
visit which we are about to make, and you will see 
the Catholic religion in full operation.” 

“ What, Eleanor !” cried her mother, “ do you 
mean to bring Sir James into Bernard O’Daly’s 1” 

“ Even so, my dear mother.” 

“ I shall be but too happy, Miss Oiisely,” said 
the baronet, with even more than his usual suavity, 
‘‘ to make any visit in such company.” 

“ Nay, no compliments,” said Eleanor, laughing- 
ly ; “ bottle them up, and they will keep for those 
who require them— we here are plain country folk, 
you know. But, hush ! there is the house — you 
see it is just on our way. Are you coming in, 
mother I” 

“ Yes, my dear, I believe I shall. Ben, pull up a 
little — we want to stop at Bernard O’Daly’s. You 
can walk the horses up and down the road a little 
way, till w'e come out.” 

Trelawney was instantly at her side to hand her 
out of the carriage, while Eleanor stepped lightly 
out, without waiting for assistance, and was the 
first to enter the house. 

Bernard met her at the door, his eyes red and 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


163 


Bwollen. “ How is Mrs. O’Daly sa.d Eleanor, 
in a low voice. 

“ As bad as she could be, Miss Eleanor dear ! 
oh ! dear me, Mrs. Ousely ! is this you, ma’am 1 
why then, indeed, I didn’t expect to see you here. 
Won’t you sit down, ma’am*? an’ the young gen- 
tleman — please to take a seat, sir !” Having seen 
the visitors seated, the old man went to the room 
door, and made a sign to Kathleen to come out. 
The young woman was somewhat startled on 
seeing a strange gentleman wdth the ladies, but she 
quickly recovered her usual quiet composure. 

“ God bless you. Miss Eleanor dear ! you didn’t 
w'ait long to fulfil your promise.” 

“ How is your mother now, Kathleen*?” inquired 
Mrs. Ousely. 

“Very low indeed, ma’am, thanks to you for 
asking ; Eatlier O’Driscoll is with her now — he 
gave her the rites of the Church this morning, and 
he had us all praying there in the room, when we 
heard the carriage stop. Wouldn’t you wish to 
see my poor mother, ma’am ? I know Miss Eleanor 
w'ould !” 

“ And I, too, Kathleen,” said Mrs. Ousely, “ if 
our presence will not disturb her.” 

“ Oh, no fear of that, ma’am — it’s past that 
wdth her.” Poor Kathleen’s voice failed her, for 
just then there came a voice of w'ailing from the 
room. “ It’s little Eveleen, poor child !” mur 


154 


NEW lights; or, 


mured Kathleen, “ God pity her !” The tone wasi 
that of “ God pity us all !” 

“ ril jist go in and tell my mother that you’re 
here,” said KatlTeen. She went in, leaving her 
father with the visitors, and in a few minutes 
returned, making a sign for them to go in. “ You 
can stay here at the door of the room,” said 
Eleanor to Trelawney, “ so that you may see and 
hear what passes within. We shall not keep you 
long.” 

“And here’s a chair, sir,” said Bernard, taking 
another at a little distance. Mrs. O’Daly w%as 
sitting up in the bed, supported by pillows, for her 
disease was of an asthinatical kind ; her breathing 
was hoarse and rapid, and her eyes w^andercd 
restlessly around, as she gasped and struggled for 
breath, in a manner pitiful to behold. Her face 
was ghastly pale, and the nose was already pinched 
and sharp, a sure harbinger of death. The priest 
was seated in a chair beside the bed : Bridget was 
on the opposite side, with one arm around her 
mother’s neck, while with the other she alternately 
wiped the cold dew from her forehead, and fanned 
her face with her handkerchief. None of the sons 
were present, and Eleanor thought it strange that 
they should be absent at such a time. 

Father O’Driscoll bowed as the ladies entered, 
and would have resigned His seat, but Eleanor, in 
a low voice, begged him to remain where he ’^vas. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


155 


The sick woman looked round, and seeing Mrs» 
Ousely, she bent her head, but to Eleanor she 
reached her hand, and made an effort to say, “I’m 
glad an’ thankful. Miss Eleanor dear ! It’s very 
good — of you, ma’am, to come to see — -a poor crea- 
ture — like me ! Kathleen ! bring chairs — for the 
ladies.” A violent fit of coughing here set in, and 
while it lasted, the two girls held their mother up, 
then laid her back exhausted on the pillow. 

“ My dear Mrs. O’Daly !” said Mrs. Ousely, “ I 
am very sorry to see you so poorly ! We should 
have been to see you sooner, had we known any- 
thing of it.” 

“ I’m thankful to you, ma’am, for all your good- 
ness — to me. You were ever an’ always — kind 
an’ thoughtful, an’ if you had been to the fore, or 
Miss Eleanor either, a Monday mornin’ last, the 
master would never have treated me as he did. 
But it was to be — ochone ! I suppose I had it to 
go through.” 

“ My dear child !” said Father O’Driscoll ; “you 
had better say nothing about that. You are too 
weak in body and in mind to bear any excitement, 
and besides, you have promised to forgive and 
forget. Eemember that, my child ! remember 
the words of your daily petition t ‘ forgive us our 
trespasses, as we forgive them who trespass against 
us !” 

“ I do remember it, your reverence, I do videed^ 


166 


NEW lights; or, 


an’ though I said them words to the misthress ar/ 
Miss Eleanor, I had no harm in them, Eather 
O’Driscoll — oh no, sir ! God knows I can say from 
my heart out that I bear no ill-will to any one. 
All that troubles me now is that I must leave 
Bernard and the children !” 

Here Eveleen sobbed aloud, and her sisters 
could not restrain their tears The priest admon- 
ished them in a whisper, not to disturb their 
mother, and then turning again to her, he said : 

And why trouble yourself about that 1 You 
are going to a region of endless joy, where, after a 
little while, you shall see all those you love again. 
You have brought your children up in the fear and 
love of God — they will work their way bravely 
through the trials of this life, and then they shall 
all go in turn to rejoin you in heaven. Till then 
you will pray for them, and you can thus do more 
for them than if you were with them here on earth. 
Be not uneasy, then, about your family. Resign 
them all into the hands of God, and beg of the 
Blessed Virgin to be a mother to them when you 
are gone.” 

Honora raised her hands and eyes to heaven, 
and her lips moved in prayer, but no words came 
forth. Gradually her face lost its sorrowful ex- 
pression, and a look of benign tranquillity stole 
over the shrunk and wasted features. Eleanor 
and her mother feared she was dying, but Father 


LIFE IN GALWAF. 


167 


O’ Driscoll assured them that she was not so near 
death as they might suppose. “ She will hold 
out,” said he, “ in all probability, till the turn of 
the night.” 

But where are the young men V’ asked Eleanor 
of the priest. 

“They are away working their day’s work,” 
said he with emotion, “ digging out a ditch for 
Mr. Dixon.” 

“ Is it possible, sir ?” 

“ Ay ! indeed, Miss Elean«r !” said poor Honora, 
who had heard what the priest said, though he had 
spoken almost in a whisper. “ The poo-r boys 
took their spades in their hands yesterday mornin’, 
an’ went to ask work from Mr. Dixon. God help 
them^ poor fellows ! it’s little we thought a year 
or two back, that they’d be w'orkin’ in a ditch 
shough for sixpence a day! Well! it’s best for 
us that we can’t see what’s before us — och ! it is, 
indeed !” 

Father O’Driscoll again interposed with his 
consoling voice : “ And don’t you know it is for 
your sake they do it, my dear child? You have 
reason to be truly thankful that God has given you 
such children !” 

“ Ay ! ay ! sure I know it’s to buy some little 
comfort for their poor s’ck mother that they took 
It upon themselves to go — och! God forgive me 

for this sinful pride — this foolish pride that sticks 
14 


168 


NEW lights; cr, 


to me. O Lord ! root it out of my heart, an* 
give me the grace of true humility. Make me 
thankful, O my God ! for these little trials, for 
ochone ! hut I wanted something to humble me ! 
Father O’Driscoll ! with God’s help you’ll not 
hear me grumblin’ any more about our poverty — 
I’ll take up my cross now, late as it is, an’ I’ll 
meet my Judge with it in my hand. There, Kath- 
leen dear! lay me down. I’m weak, children, 
weak, weak !” She clo^'^d her eyes, and lay a 
few minutes motionless, but bearing the ladies 
move, she opened her eyes and fixed them on 
Eleanor. “ Come here. Miss Eleanor !” 

The young lady approached, and bent her head 
to listen. 

“ Tell your father,” said she slowly and with 
difficulty, “ tell him Ilonora O’Daly forgives him. 
But tell him too, miss, that if he goes on as he’s 
doin’, persecutin’ the poor cratures for their reli- 
gion, he’ll bring down a curse on himself an’ all 
.belongin’ to him. Tell him that from a dyin’ 
w^oman. Bend down your head nearer. Miss 
Eleanor she did so, while her tears fell fast on 
the pale face of the dying w^oman. “ I want to 
leave you all the legacy I can— be a Catholic, 
Miss Eleanor 1 if you want to save your soul. 
If you do. I’ll not bid you good bye for ever, we’ll 
meet again in heaven. If you don’t, may the Lord 
pity you! — you n-jedn’t blame Honora O’Daly 1” 


LIFE IN GALWAS. 


159 


“I thank jon sincerely” said Eleanor, with a 
blanched cheek and a tremulous voice. “ I shall 
not forget your warning ! Farewell, Mrs. O’Daly ! 
I hope to see you to-morrow.” ' 

Honora smiled and shook her head. “ If you 
come to-morrow, Miss Eleanor, it’s these,” point.- 
ing to her husband and her weeping daughters, 
“ it’s these that will want comfort, not me. I’ll be 
gone on my long journey before then. Do all you 
can for Bernard and the children. Miss Eleanor, 
they’ll need friends, God help them ! till Cormac 
can send them relief !” 

Mrs. Ousely then shook hands with Honora, 
and told her she would send down some things 
for her use as soon as she reached home. “ Thank 
you, ma’am,” said Honora faintly, “ I don’t think 
you need take the trouble — I don’t want much now, 
my eatin’ an’ drinkin’s near over ! God be with 
you, ma’am, you have the good wish of the poor 
every day you rise, but they’d think far more about 
you than they do, if you’d let them alone about 
religion, an’ do as Miss Eleanor does.” 

“ Well ! well !” said Mrs. Ousely, smiling pleas- 
antly, “perhaps I’ll behave better for the time to 
come. I see you Catholics are very different 
people from what I thought. Farewell, Honora I 
Come, my daughter, it is wearing late !” 

Meanwhile, Father O’Driscoll had joined 
Bernard and Sir James, and had entered into 


160 


KEW lights; or 


conversation with the latter, chiefly on the solemn 
scene before them. When Mrs. Ousely and 
Eleanor came out, the latter introduced them to 
each other, for Father O’Driscoll and she were 
old acquaintances, having often met on similar 
occasions, at the bed-side of the sick and dying. 

“ I regret, sir,” said Trelawney, “ that we must 
part so soon. I should have wished to cultivate 
your acquaintance a little more, had time permit- 
ted.” 

“ If you are not engaged to-morrow, come and 
dine with me then !” said the priest with a smile, 
as he shook hands with Trelawney. “ Any one 
can show you my humble domicile.” 

“ I shall certainly avail myself of your kind and 
welcome invitation, sir,” said the baronet with a 
graceful bow. Having seen the ladies seated in 
their carriage, he would have wished them good 
morning, but Mrs. Ousely insisted that he should 
see them home, “ and unless you are otherwise 
engaged,” said she, “ you must stay and partake of 
our family dinner. Mr. Ousely will be more than 
pleased to have your company for the evening.” 

“ So be it, then,” replied Trelawney with a 
smile. “Persuasion is easy, you know, where 
inclination leads th ^ way.” 


CHAPTER Yin. 


“ The keen is loud, it comes again, 

And rises sad from the funeral train ; 

As in sorrow it winds along the plain. 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy 

“ Death is not always an evil.” 

Thk carriage had scarcely left the door, when 
Granny Mulligan stept out from behind the barn 
and tramped into the house, bending under the 
weight of a well filled bag. Seeing no one in the 
kitchen, she called out : “ Come here some of ye, 
children, an’ take this bag off my back.” 

Kathleen hastened out from the room, and told 
Granny in a whisper, as she lifted the bag from her 
back, how Mrs. Ousely and Miss Eleanor, and the 
English gentleman, from Clareview, had been to 
see her mother. 

“ I know they were, Kathleen,” said the beggar- 
woman quietly, “ my back an’ shoulders can tell all 
about it, for when I got to the end o’ the barn, an’ 
seen the coach at the door, I didn’t want the quality 
to see me cornin’ in here with my bag full, so I just 
waited there till they’d be gone, an’ a good stay 
they made of it. But how is your mother — did 
she get e’er a turn since momin’ 


162 


NEW lights; or, 


“ No, granny, she’s much about the same way — 
only may be a little weaker — but sure Miss Elea- 
nor is to send down some nice things for her as 
soon as she gets home. I don’t know what I’ll do 
for the boys’ dinner — I haven’t more than a dozen 
of potatoes.” 

^ “ An’ where’s jmur eyes, Kathleen, that you don’t 

see the bag beyant — isn’t there enough there, for 
two or three dinners 1 Go off now, an’ wash the 
praties an’ I’ll put on the pot, an’ we’ll have the 
dinner in a jiffy. What are you gapin’ at me tlmt 
way for, you foolish colleen — go an’ do what I bid 
you.” 

“Well, but, granny — ” 

“ Don’t be botherin’ me now with your talk, Kath- 
leen,” said the old woman, sharply, “ I must go an’ 
see what way your mother is in, an’ mind you have 
the dinner ready soon, for I’m goin’ up to Clai*e- 
view by-an’-bye, and I’ll take it to the boys.” 

“ No, no, granny,” said Kathleen, “ I’ll send 
Eveleen.” 

“ No, nor the sorrastep you’ll send her — do you 
think I’d let Eveleen, or any of you, go on that 
errand, an’ me here ? Mmht, but you’re the quare 
Kathleen, to think o’ the like. No, no,” muttered 
the kind-hearted old woman, as she hung up her 
cloak, and turned into the sick room, “ no, no — it’s 
bad enough as it is.” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


163 


“Well! God reward you, gianny — that’s th 
best I can wish you !” 

“ Never fear but he will,” said Granny, at the 
door of the room, “I’m not much afeard about 
that.” 

“ What is that you say, granny ?” asked Father 
O’Driscoll, who was still sitting at the bedside. 

“ It’s talkin’ to Kathleen I am, your reverence, 
about a little matter that’s atween ourselves. How 
do you feel now, asiore P putting her hand on the 
sick woman’s head. 

“ Neither better nor worse, granny dear,” replied 
Honora, in a low, husky voice. 

Granny Mulligan said nothing, but she looked 
significantly at Father O’Driscoll, who shook his 
head, and made a sign for her not to speak much. 
Bridget and Eveleen looked into granny’s face to 
see what she thought, and their tears began to flow 
again, when they saw the mournful expression so 
visible on every feature — they knew that she had 
no hope. Bernard, who was sitting sad and silent 
in one corner of the room, brought over a chair to 
the bed-side, and resumed his place without saying 
a word. In a few minutes Father O’ Driscoll arose, 
and saying that he would be back in two cr three 
hours, was about to leave the room, when Honora 
stretched out her emaciated hand, and murmured 
“ Well ! God’s blessin’ and mine be with you, 
Father O’DriscoU ! — ^ym’ve done your own share 


t64 


NEW lights; or, 


/hr me an’ mine, any he w. I have one faver to ask 
of you before you go, for fear I’d be gone before 
you come back.” 

“ What is it, Ilonora f’ inquired the priest, 
bending his head to catch her faint accents. 

“ Won’t you say a mass or two for me, as soon 
as you can — I’ve no money to offer you, but I know 
that will be no hindrance to your charity.” 

“ Make your mind easy on that head, my poor 
child !” said the priest, with emotion; “ I’ll not for- 
get you, be assured of it. But I hope to see you 
again before ” 

“ Before I go — God grant that you may, your 
reverence ! I’d like to have you near me at my off 
goin’, but if anything keeps you away, why — the 
will of God be done !” She closed her eyes, in 
silent meditation, and the priest moved quietly 
away, followed to the door by Bernard, who stop- 
ped him on the outer threshold, to ask how long 
poor Honora was likely to hold out. 

“She may last till midnight,” said Father 
O’Driscoll, as he shook Bernard’s har d, and squeezed 
it hard, “but it is much more likely that she will 
drop off about night-fall. God comfort you, Ber- 
nard !” The old man raised his tearful eyes to 
heaven, but he could not speak, his heart was too 
full. 

Before Bernard had returned to the sick room, 
a messenger arrived from the Hall, witii a well 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


161 


filled basket, containing wine, tea, sugar, soilo 
loaves of bread, and several other little matters 
useful for the sick. Kathleen was called to put 
away the things, and all the time she was thus em- 
ployed, her heart was raised in thanksgiving to 
God, and in earnest supplication for the spiritual 
and temporal welfare, of the generous donors. 
Never did the thought once cross her mind that 
the Ousely family owed hers more than this — a 
thousand times more. When Kathleen returned 
the basket to the servant, he said that Miss Ousely 
sent her compliments to know how Mrs. O’Daly 
was. 

“ Miss Ousely is very kind,” said Kathleen, 
“ but no kinder than I would expect her to be. 
Tell her that my poor mother is just the same 
way, and that we don’t expect her to get over this 
evening. Give her and Mrs. Ousely our best 
thanks !” 

Towards evening the young men came in from 
their work — their first day’s work for the stranger, 
and the first question was, “ How is mother 
Bridget, who had resigned her place in the sick 
room to her elder sister, was now engaged in pro^ 
paring the supper, and she answered only by a 
sorrowful shake of the head, and a fresh burst of 
tears, 

“ So she’s no better, Bridget V’ said Cormao in 
a whisper. 


166 


NEW lights; or, 


“ Worse, if anything, Cormac dear !” 

“Who’s in the room with her — is there any 
stranger T’ 

“ No, only Phil Maguire and Nanny.” 

The brothers waited to hear no more, but has- 
tened to their mother’s bed-side. She lay with her 
eyes closed, and her cold clammy hands extended 
over the bed-clothes, without even the slightest 
motion. Seeing that the young men started on 
beholding her, Nanny Maguire told Cormac in a 
whisper that she was not yet dead. Cormac 
ejaculated his fervent thanks to God, and though he 
spoke below his breath, yet his voice reached his 
mother’s ear. She opened her eyes, now dim and 
glassy, and tried to reach out her hand, but could 
not, and it fell powerless on the bed. Cormao 
took the hand and squeezed it between his own, as 
though he would warm it. 

“ It’s no use, Cormac aroon she whispered, 
with a faint smile, “ it’s the coldness of death that’s 
in it. Thank God — oh ! thank God that you came 
in time. Are the boys there 1 Owen and Daniel, 
where are you, children 

“ Here, mother darling, here we are !” and both 
burst into tears as they pressed up close to the 
bed. “Mother! mother! sure you’ll not leave 
usf’ sobbed Owen, “Oh! what would we do 
without you, at all V’ 

“ God will do for you, my poor fellow, an’ sura 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


167 


I leave you m good hands, the Blessed Virgin will 
be your mother. Who’s that at the foot of the 
bed 7 ah ! that’s Eveleen — come here, Eveleen, 
my little one, my helpless one !” The little girl 
laid her tearful face close by her mother’s on the 
bed. “ Stay there, Eveleen, don’t leave me any 
more — you’ll not have to wait long, dear ! Oh ! 
but don’t be cryin’ that way, you’d only disturb 
me when I ought to be quiet.” 

“ Mother dear,” said Kathleen, “ don’t talk so 
much, it will do you harm.” Nanny too begged 
of her to keep still, but she only smiled and talked 
on, whenever she could get out a few words. 

“Where’s Bridget? I don’t see her.” Bridget 
came in, and then the dying mother cast a glance 
around, resting a moment on every dear face. 
When she came to Bernard, she made a desperate 
effort, and succeeded in reaching out her hand. 
“Poor Bernard!” she muttered, “you may well 
cry, you’re losin’ one that loved you better than all 
the world. But then, sure we’re not partin’ for- 
ever, we’ll meet again, Bernard, never to part any 
more. Take good care o’ the children, Bernard 
dear, an’ see that none o’ them falls away 
from the service o’ God — pray for them, aroon i 
while you’re left here behind me, an’ I’ll pray fof 
them when 1 get to heaven, which I will one day 
or another, with God’s help.” 

“Onny dear!” said Bernard, “I know all you 


188 


A'EW LIGH •’f?; OR 


want to say — we all know it and wdth the assist- 
ance of God’s grace, we’ll do «-s you wish. Don’t 
be wearin’ yourself away talkin’ — don’t, alanna 
machree!’^ 

“I b’lleve — I can’t say mu^h more — at any 
rate ! — Boys ! there’s the sound )f a horse’s feet. 
Run out an’ see — maybe it’s Father O’Driscoll !” 

“ It is, indeed, mother,” said C-^rmac, as he 
returned with the priest. 

“Och! thanks be to God!” said Honora fer- 
vently. “I’m a’most over, your reverence, God 
sent you just in time. Where are you all,, or did 
you put out the light 1 I can’t see.” The priest, by 
a wave of his hand, restrained the general outburst 
of sorrow which these last ominous words called 
forth, and he calmly commanded all to kneel, while 
he read the prayers for the dymg. 

“ Put the beads in my hand,” said Honora, 
“ there — Kathleen dear 1 — I can’t see you, but I 
know it’s you — put them that way — on my breast 
' — ah ! Granny Mulligan ! I hear you — pray for 
me when I’m gone — an’ Phil an’ Nanny 1” 

She spoke so low, that Kathleen had to lend 
down over her to catch her words. 

“ W ern’t they in the room, dear ?’ 

“ Yes, mother, they’re ali here — praying for 
you.” 

“ That’s right, Kathleen ! — now, children, fare- 
well ! — Bernard 1 it’s the poor, lonely Bernard 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


16S 


you’ll be cow! — God bless you all — God bless 
you ! — Cormac ! — Eveleen ! — God and the Blessed 
Virgin be your guide !” 

These were her last words — she never spoke 
again. The prayers were read — the responses 
went up in fervent unison from every heart — 
Ilonora’s lips were seen to move, and a smile came 
over her wasted features, but neither foot nor hand 
moved. At last the priest repeated the final act ; 
“ Depart, Christian soul ! go forth from this 
world, &c.” When it was ended, the smile was 
still on Honora’s face, and the hands were clasped 
over the beads and crucifix, but the lips moved uo 
more : the soul was already before the Judgment 
seat. The priest bent down over the dead, to sa- 
tisfy himself that all was over ; then raising his 
hands and eyes to heaven, he said in a tremulous 
voice : “ May the Lord have mercy on you, 
Ilonora O’Daly !” 

This was the signal for the long-repressed sorrow 
to burst forth. The girls threw themselves on 
their knees beside the bed, and buried their faces 
in the clothes, till they satisfied themselves — they 
wept for some time, unnoticed and unrestrained, 
for all present were more or less sharers in their 
sorrow. Bernard sat down in a corner, and cover 
ed his face with his hands, nor moved till the voicfl 
of Father O’Driscoll drew him from his lethargy 
of grief. Taking him by the hand he led him out 


170 


NEW lights; or, 


into the kitchen, saying : “ Come here, Bernard , I 
•want to speak to you.” 

The old man followed with the docility of a 
little child, but as he passed the bed, he cast a 
glance at the still pale face of his dead wife, and 
muttering, “ Poor Honora ! — och ! och ! — is that 
the way with you at last 1” He said no more, but 
went at the priest’s bidding, and sat down by the 
fire-side in the kitchen. Father O’Driscoll then 
reminded him that he had but little cause to 
mourn Plonora’s death, at least as far as herself 
was concerned, “ for,” said he, “ the exchange is a 
happy one for her.” 

“ Och ! I know that. Father O’Driscoll ! — I 
know that well ; but still — God help us — we can’t 
help grievin’ for our own loss. I know she’s better off, 
your reverence, but then she’s gone from us.” He 
looked over at the high-backed chair — now empty 
• — and he could say no more. The priest sat 
calmly by till the old, man had “ cried his fill,” as 
he said himself, and then he talked with him of the 
exceeding great happiness of the “ just made per- 
fect,” and of the reward reserved for those who 
suffer all things for God’s sake,' until the bereaved 
husband began almost to rejoice that his poor, 
broken-hearted Honora had at length found rest 
and peace. This was the frame of mind to which 
Father O’Driscoll had sought to bring him, ar d so, 
hairing spoken a few words of consolation tc each 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 171 

of tli3 bereaved children, he mounted his horse, and 
took his way home, with a promise to return in the 
morning and say mass. Phil Maguire and Cormao 
walked with him, on foot, part of the way, talking 
of the many virtues of the dead. The priest 
asked Phil whether he and Nanny proposed staying 
at the wake. 

“ Oh, blood alive ! to be sure we do, your re- 
verence. Nanny’s goin’ to help granny Mulligan 
now to lay poor Honora out, an’ after that we’ll 
stay all night. Oh ! that’s the least we may do, 
Father O’Driscoll, an’ sorry, sorry we are to have 
the occasion.” 

“ Thank you, Phil,” said Cormac, his voice quiv- 
ering with emotion, “ I trust in God it will be long 
before any of us will be called upon to do a like 
kind office for you or yours.” 

“ Well, now,” said Father O’Driscoll, “I think 
you had better return home — I can go on alone, 
and your sisters will be looking for you, Cormac.’' 

“We’ll be biddin’ your reverence good night, 
then,” said Phil, “ wishing you safe home. Why- 
who’s this cornin’ along at sich a rate 

The night was not so dark but that objects wera 
distinctly visible, and a horseman was now seen 
dashing up the road at full speed. He was passing 
by, without noticing any one, when the priest called 
out : “ Why, Tim Flanagan, is that you — whera 
are you going in such a hurry 


NEW lights; or, 


n:, 

T^ie T “an instantly stopped, and putting his hand 
to his 1 at, or rather cap, exclaimed : “ Ah ! then, 
Father O’Driscoll, sure enough it was God that 
sent you here. I was at the house, your reverence, ' 
lookin’ for you, an’ Nancy Breen sent me up to Ber 
nard O’Daly’s after you.’^ 

“ W1 ly, what’s the matter, Tim ? Is there any- 
thing M rong 

“ ’D( od an’ there is, your reverence — that un 
fortunrte brother o’ mine was taken very bad witn 
a colic last night, an’ there’s no life expected for 
him. ile’s cryin’ out for you, now, the poor 
unlucl / scape-grace, an’ I hope you’ll forgive an’ 
forget Father O’Driscoll, an’ come away to him at 
once. There’s no time to be lost, for he’s a’most 
gone 's it is !” 

Ah ! the blackguard !•’ said Phil Maguire, 
how has he the face to send for the priest, afther 
doin’ what he did — it’s a mortal sin not to let him 
die like a dog. Why doesn’t he send for the min 
isther, Tim 

“ Oh ! you’re there, Phil Maguire, myself didn’t 
look who was in it, my mind’s in sich a state about 
poor Jack. Don’t be too hard on him, Phil dear, 
for though T never exchanged words with him since 
misfortune an’ the soup made him join the Jump- 
ers, still I can’t bear to hear him run down, now 
* that he’s sorry for what he done, an’ wants to get 
\. ick into the Church before he dies.” 


LIFE IN G A^WA f . 


m 


“Smd.l thanks to him for that,” said Phil gruff- 
ly, « hs staid away as long as he could — he’s no 
sich fool as to lose the last chance of savin’ his 
sowl, but God grant him the grace of true repen- 
tance any how ! Myself hopes that he’ll not die 
before the priest gets there, though we all know 
that he deserves to be taken short ; howanever, 
God’s merciful I” 

“ Come, come, Tim !” said the priest, who kept 
moving on during this brief colloquy ; “ let us pull 
out — thank God ! we have not far to go, and we 
may still be in time. Ride now, Tim, for life and 
death — there’s a precious soul at stake !” 

Cormac and Phil stood listening on the road till 
the clatter of the horses’ feet died away on the 
still night-air, and as they turned to retrace their 
steps, the young man said with a heavy sigh, “ My 
poor, poor mother ! how often have I heard her 
prophecy what has this night come to pass ! She 
used to say, when she’d hear of Jack Flanagan’s 
ridiculing the priests, that whoever lived to see 
him in his last hour, he’d be calling for the priest, 
and calling in vain.” 

“ Ay ! an’ it’s ten chances to one if he don’t 
die with the word in his mouth — there’s something 
tellin’ me, that Father O’Driscoll won’t get there 
in time ! Oh, Cormac dear, but it’s a foolish thing 
to depend on a death-bed conversion ! See what a 
difference there is between the death of that un- 
is* 


NEW lights; or 


tU 

lucky crature, if so be that he does die, which J 
suppose he will, an’ your mother, the Lord rest 
her sowl in glory !” 

“ Yes ! Phil, that is our only consolation — my 
dear mother’s death was just an instance that ‘ as we 
live, so we die’ — it was a fitting end for a life of 
simple piety and unpretending virtue !” Beautiful 
and touching was that heartfelt tribute to a mother’s 
memory, and so thought Phil Maguire, but he said 
nothing. His sympathy was too deep for words. 
Just then, too, they reached the door, and were 
met by Granny Mulligan, who told them, in her 
bustling way, not to go ‘ near the room’ for another 
while, “ for,” said she, “ Nanny an’ myselPs doin’ 
something in there that we don’t want to be dis- 
turbed at. The people’s beginnin’ to come in for 
the wake, Cormac aroon / so jist go, you an’ Phil, 
an’ get the pipes an’ tobacco. Them things that 
came from the Hall are in good stead now ! 
Kathleen an’ Bridget’s goin’ to make tay for the 
women by an bye !” 

“Well! go in you, Phil, and send Daniel or 
Owen here,” said Cormac, “ we must go into town.” 

“ An’ won’t I do as well as either Daniel or 
Owen i” demanded Phil, testily. “ Come on, now, 
Cormac, an’ don’t be standin’ there dilly-dally !” 

Phil knew well what he was about. He in- 
tended to make the necessary purchases himself, 
and would have been just as well pleased could 


LIFE IK GALWAF. 


175 


he have gone alone, but, knowing that he could not 
well get rid of Cormac, he must only manage it 
the best way he could. 

A busy woman was granny Mulligan all that 
Jong night. Every member of the family being 
too much engrossed with their own heavy sorrow, 
to pay proper attention to the neighbors and friends 
who thronged in to the wake,, granny took it upon 
herself to receive everybody, to show everybody 
to their proper places, and to see that everybody 
had what was needful and fitting for them. The 
old people she ushered into the room, where 
Bernard sat in speechless woe near the foot of the 
bed, whereon the corpse was laid out. The young 
people were all placed in the kitchen and in the 
young men’s bedroom, cleared out for the occa- 
sion. Nanny Maguire had her own share of the 
duty to perform, and she bustled about the fire- 
side, superintending and helping on the preparation 
of “ the tay” aforesaid. A trifling dispute some- 
times arose between her and Kathleen regarding 
the quantity of tea to be put down, or some such 
thing, Nanny still insisting that there was “ no use 
in puttin’ down so much” — that “ enough was as 
good as a feast,” and that “ wilful waste made 
woeful want.” Kathleen would smile a mournful 
smile, and say, “ Let us have enough foi* this one 
night, Nanny dear! My poor mother never 


NEW LIQ fl rs ; 


i7G 

stinted any one in eating or drinking, when she 
had it to give, and now when God and Miss Elea* 
nor sent us plenty, let us give as freely as we got.” 

“ Well ! well ! have it your own way, Kathleen, 
lioney ! hut I declare to my sins, it goes to my 
heart to see sich waste, and in times like these., 
too.” 

When Cormac and Phil returned, the pipes and 
tobacco were laid on the tables in each room, and 
the house was soon reeking with the smoke and 
smell of tobacco. After a little there came a 
knock at the door for the twentieth time, and when 
it was opened, who, of all the world, should be 
there but Andrew McGilligan, his tracts, as usual, 
under his arm. One looked at another, but no one 
spoke, and Andrew looked round in vain for a seat 
— he might have looked long, for the spare seats 
were all slily shoved into corners, out of sight, as 
soon as his doleful countenance had appeared with- 
in the door. It was granny Mulligan who first 
spoke, in right of her self appointed office of mis- 
tress of the ceremonies. 

“ Well ! good man — what’s your business here ?” 

“ I have just heard that there is a wake in this 
house to-night, and knowing the profane sports 
usually practised on these occasions, amongst Ro- 
mish people, I was moved to come and frovido 
for the numerous company here assembled m en 


LIFE IN G ALWaT. 


177 


ieitainment far more profitable and more becoming 
for the house of death.” 

“ An’ what sort of entertainment are you goin’ 
to give us, agra said granny, putting her arms 
a-kimbo, and planting herself firmly on her feet. 
At the same time she winked at the amused and 
expectant listeners. 

“ I have brought some excellent pamphlets, from 
w^hich I can choose some interesting narrative to 
read for these good people’s entertainment. Can 
you accommodate me with a seat, my good old 
lady 1” 

“ Ho ! ho !” cried granny, “ I’m a good old 
lady, now, am I % — ah ! then, Andy, acushla ! is 
that the way with you now ? — don’t you mind the 
other day when you gave me all the abuse in the 
world, bekase I asked a charity at Jack Flanagan’s 
— I was an old Popish vagrant, then, but now I’m 
‘ a good old lady’ — lady, inagh ! — don’t I look like 
a lady — eh ! boys an’ girls 1 — don’t you think Andy 
can lay on the blarney thick 1 Now I’ll just tell 
you what it is, Andy McGilligan ; it’s the best of - 
your play to make your escape as fast as you can 
—if the people o’ the house sees you, I can tell 
you you’ll not be thankful to yourself for your 
visit.” 

“ But surely you will not deny me a seat 1” 

“Ibe seats are scarce the jiight,” returred 


178 


NEW lights; or, 


granny, shortly ; “ we have none to spare. What 
are you drawin’ so near that room for - 

“ My dear woman ! I see some of the family in 
that room, and would wish to administer comfort 
unto them.” He was still making for the room 
door, whereupon granny placed herself directly 
in his way, and waxing warm upon it, shook her 
fist in his face. 

“ I tell you now, once for all, Andy McGilligan ! 
that you shan’t set your foot inside o’ that room. 
Why, man, Honora O’Daly couldn’t rest in pace 
if she knew that there was one o’ your tribe near 
her. Away out o’ this with you now — tracts an’ 
all ! or that I mayn’t do harm, but I’ll try the 
strenth o’ my arm on you — ould as I am, I think 
God would give me strength enough to bate a 
Bible-reader.” 

“ What is this, granny, what is this f’ said 
Corinac, coming out from the inner room. 

“ There now,” cried granny, in a high state of 
excitement, “you wouldn’t go till you brought 
Cormac out. See there, Cormac awm ! — there’s 
Andy McGilligan forcin’ his way into the loom — 
he wants to comfort you with some tracts he has 
here.” 

The young man fixed a look of scathing scorn 
on the luckless Bible-reader, but he merely said, in 
a thrilling whisper : “ Man ! man ! will not even 
the presence of death screen us from your perse- 


LIFE IN GALWAY 


179 


cution and without waiting to hear a word of 
Andr^iw’s attempted justification, he quietly led him 
to the door, and was preparing to shut it after him, 
when a lad who had entered but a few minutes 
before, called out from within ; 

“ Arrah ! Andy, did you hear the news V’ 

“No !” returned Andrew from without : “ what 
news V’ 

“ Jack Flanagan’s dead, an’ he died jist as he 
ought to do, in black despair. He was shoutin’ 
for the priest from ever he found death upon him, 
an’ his brother Tim went off post-haste for Father 
O’Driscoll, but when they came, the poor divil was 
speechless, an’ workin’ for death, an’ so the priest 
could do nothing but kneel down an’ say a prayer 
for him. He died without being able to' say a 
word, an’ they say it was terrifyin’ to see him.” 

“ I do not believe you, my good young man. I 
cannot and will not believe you.” 

“You may do for that as you like, my good 
young man — as you say yourself — but what I tell 
you’s true enough, an’ what’s more, it will be your 
own story sonie of these fine days, unless you alter 
your ways.” 

A low titter passed around amongst the young 
people, and Cormac hastily closed the door against 
the crest-fallen agent of “ The Protestant Missions,” 
then beckoning Phil out of the room, he tcld him 
in a whisper of Flanagan’s unhappy death. 


130 liEW lights; or, 

“ Poor wretch ! poor wretch !” ejaculated Phil, 
his kind heart touched with sorrow for the man’s 
miserable end ; “ may the Lord forgive him his 
sins — I hope it’s no harm to pray for him !” 

“ An’ I wish it may be any use either, Phil !” 
chimed in Nanny from behind; “the best thing we 
can do is to take warning by his example, an’ 
pray for the grace of a happy death.” 

Early next morning Eleanor Ousely walked 
down to Bernard O’Daly’s, anxious to know w^he- 
ther Jlonora O’Daly was living or dead. When 
she came to the door and saw the kitchen full of 
people, she knew at once that the poor weary 
spirit was released from bondage, and there was 
a sort of melancholy pleasure in the thought. 
Her appearance was evidently unexpected, for the 
people, old and young, started and stared, but all 
stood up and bowed low, and smiled in answer to 
the young lady’s graceful salutation, and many a 
ferment “ God bless you !” arose from heart and 
lip to heaven, for Eleanor Ousely was the protec- 
tress of her father’s poor tenantry, their advocate, 
and their benefactress. Bernard was not slow in 
making his appearance, and Eleanor, taking his 
hand kindly, looked sorrowfully towards the 
shrouded corpse, visible through the open door. 

“ ifes, she’s there, Miss Eleanor,” said Bernard, 
following the direction of her eyes, “ she can’t 
WS^come you now. She’s gone from me at last, 


life in UALWAY. 181 

after our long partnership. Well! God’s will be 
done, anyhow ! Won’t you come in an’ sit down, 
Miss Eleanor dear 'I The girls are in here, except 
poor little Eveleen, that we sent to bed about an 
hour ago.” 

The two sisters were sitting sad and sorrowful 
beside the bed, and on seeing Eleanor they boJh 
burst into tears, remembering how much their 
poor mother had loved her, and they could neither 
of them speak for some time. There was only 
Phil Maguire and one or two others in the room, 
for Nanny and granny Mulligan had been per- 
suaded to lie down for a few hours, after the 
fatigue of the night. 

About nine o’clock Father O’Driscoll arrived, 
and a temporary altar was quickly prepared in the 
room with the corpse. While the preparations 
were going forward, the priest approached Eleanor, 
and said, in a low voice : “ Miss Ousely, perhaps 
you would rather not be present during Mass — if 
so, you had better withdraw till it is over — it will 
not be more than half an hour or so.” 

“ You are very kind, Mr. O’Driscoll, to think 
of me, but I am not afraid of ‘ Popish rites,’ as 
Andrew McGilligan would say. I have no objec- 
tion to worship God with Catholics.” 

“ Then yow do not consider us idolaters. Miss 
Ousely *?” said Father O’Driscoll with a smile. 

“ Not exactlv, sir,” and Eleanor smiled too. 
he 


183 


NEW lights; or, 


“ It is very dcabtful, indeed, whether any one does 
really consider you as such, but it is very certain 
that there are many who call you so, for reasons 
well known to themselves, and others too.” 

“ 1 am rejoiced to hear you speak so. Miss Ouse- 
ly,” said Father O’Driscoll. “ Brought up as you 
have been, one could scarcely expect you to do 
Catholics so much justice.” 

“ Oh ! my training has not been quite so bad as 
you would imagine, my dear sir!” said Eleanor, 
warmly. “ I was so fortunate as to have a precep- 
tress whose mind rose far above vulgar prejudice, 
and who was impressed with profound veneration 
for the Catholic Church. With her I studied 
ecclesiastical, as well as sacred and profane history, 
and I am, therefore, well aware of the claims 
which your Church has upon our respect, I will 
not say submission.” 

“ Having gone so far, then, my dear young lady, 
how can you remain as you are, cut off from that 
Church whose true character you seem to under- 
stand 

“Nay, that is another question,” replied Eleanor 
quickly ; “ I trust I am not cut off from the Church 
— I belong to an arm of the universal Church — I 
mean the Church of England.” 

Father O’Driscoll smiled, and shook his head. 
^ It won’t do, my dear Miss Ousely, it won’t do ! 
When a member is dissevered from the body, it 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


183 


caiinol exist alone— the principle of life remains 
with t.ie body, as you cannot but admit. The 
Church of England was three hundred years ago 
lopped off from the body of the Church, how then 
is she a part of it ? Take care, my dear young 
lady, take care how you tamper with a matter 
which concerns your immortal soul !” 

Nanny Maguire now came in, with several oth- 
ers of the neighbors, and the priest, seeing that all 
was in readiness, prepared to say bis mass, served 
by Daniel and Owen. During the tiine of mass, 
Eleanor knelt with the others, and it seemed to 
her that she had never prayed with so much fer- 
vor. There was inspiration in the rapt devotion 
of the simple cottagers who knelt around, and in 
the solemn presence of the dead, for whose 
eternal repose their prayers were offered up. The 
last words of the priest were uppermost in Elea- 
nor’s mind, and she could not help asking herself 
the startling question, “ What must I do to be 
saved 1” She looked at the priest, offering up an 
atoning saerifice — a renewal of that of Calvary — 
“ at least that is their belief,” said she to herself — 
then at the numerous relatives and friends, praying 
with heartfelt devotion for the departed — then at 
the lifeless clay that was soon to be consigned tc its 
parent earth, and she said w’ithin herself, in the 
words of Judas Maccabeus, “It is a good and 


184 


NEW lights; or, 


wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they 
may be loosed from their sins.” 

Mass being over, Father O’Driscoll called for 
his horse. Bernard would fain have kept him for 
breakfast, and Kathleen, too, tried her persuasive 
powers, but all in vain — stay he would not. 

“No, no, Kathleen, don’t ask me — that’s a good 
girl — I must hurry home. Don’t bjame me, Ber- 
nard,” he said in a low voice, but still Eleanor 
heard what he said ; “You know I’d rather eat 
potatoes and salt with you, than partake of the 
daintiest fare with others, but then you have 
enough for breakfast without me, and times are 
not as they used to be.” 

“Well now, your reverence, that bates Bana- 
gher,” said Bernard, “ but sure it’s just like you 
not to let your right hand know what your left 
gives. Didn’t Nancy Breen come over this mornin’ 
early with as much as would make three breakfasts- — ■ 
so the girls and Nanny Maguire says — maybe w'e 
liave just as much here as ym have at home.” 

“Well ! well ! never mind, Bernard — excuse me 
for this time. I’ll come over to-morrow and say 
mass again before the funeral goes out — I’ll 
breakfast with you then. Good morning. Miss 
Ousely! I hope you will think of what I told 
you this morning.” Eleanor bowed assent, and 
Father O’Driscoll retired, after speaking a few 
words with Phil Maguire. Eleanor remained 


LIFE IN GALVAY. 


18 & 


but a few minutes after the priest, and when 
she was going, she tried to prevail on Eveleen 
to go home with her until after the funeral. But 
Eveleen would not hear of such a thing, even 
though Kathleen and Bridget advised her to go. 
“ How w^ould you like to go yourselves, either of 
you said she, sobbing, “ and to leave my poor 
mother that will not be long with us now. Indeed, 
Miss Eleanor ! I wonder you’d ask me to do such 
a thing.” So saying, she escaped into a corner 
near the bed, and would not hear another word. 

Next morning, when the appointed time was 
come, every relative and friend of the family hav- 
ing kissed the cold, pale lips of the dead, and bid 
her a long farewell, the lid was screwed down on 
the coffin, and the corpse of poor Honora O’Daly 
was taken from the house whose mistress she had 
been for well nigh thirty years. As the distance 
to the grave-yard was not more than a mile, the 
coffin was borne on men’s shoulders, parties of four 
being appointed to relieve each other. Cormao 
and Daniel, with two of their cousins, took the 
first turn, and Phil Maguire insisted on being one 
of the second bearers. Bernard, with his son 
Owen and his three daught(^rs, walked after the 
coffin, and behind them followed granny Mulligan, 
Nanny Maguire, and our two acquaintances, Judy 
and Nelly, whom we saw in the chapel-yard on the 
day when Katty Boyce told her story to theprie«t. 


186 


NEW lights; or, 


These four old women were the keener 8^ and sang 
at intervals the mournful wail known as the Irish 
funeral cry, now no longer heard save in the more 
remote and mountainous regions, where the primi- 
tive habits still prevail. After them came a 
multitude of men and women attired in their best, 
though that best was bad enough with many ot 
them. The funeral was one of the largest that had 
been seen about Killany for many a day, and it 
was a remarkable fact that, notwithstanding the 
reduced circumstances of the O’Daly family, there 
were several gigs and jaunting-cars from the village 
and the adjoining country, showing how much and 
how far the family was respected. 

Any one who has once heard the uUelula, the 
Irish dirge — can never forget the unearthly wild- 
ness, the mournful tenderness of the strain, and on 
that day it startled the echoes of the hills, and 
died away in faint cadence along the far-off shores 
of Corrib ; for many of the aged women who 
followed in the funeral train had been playmates 
and schoolmates of Honora, had known her from 
youth’ to age, had received abundantly of the fruits 
of her prosperity, and had borne a sympathizing 
share in the reverses of her later years ; they ever 
and anon swelled the doleful chorus with the voice of 
their deep, deep sorrow. At every cross- 
road and at almost every house the funeral was 
increased, and each, as they fell ir/o the ranks of 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


ISt 

Jie procession, murmured, “ God rest your sowl 
Mrs. O’Daly!” or some such fermit ejaculation, 
Death is not in Ireland the cold, dull, dreary thing 
that it elsewhere is ; the warm, genial sympathy 
of the Celtic, the Catholic heart, is a soothing balm 
to the mourner’s troubled soul, extracting the sting 
from affliction, and depriving death of half its bit. 
terness. Byron felt the truth of this when he 
sang that well-known stanza : 

‘ —I had envied thy sons and their -shore, 

Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled. 

There was something so warm and sublime in the core 
Of an Irishman’s heart, that I envied — thy dead.” 

Somewhat similar were the reflections of Elea- 
nor and Sir James Trelawney, who, with Mrs. 
Ousely, were present in the chapel when the 
corpse was brought in and laid before the altar, 
while mass was said. It was the first time that 
Trelawney had seen an Irish funeral, and the scene 
made an impression on his mind that time could 
never efface. He then beheld the Irish people un- 
der an aspect new to him — the deep-seated piety 
and the exquisite tendernes, both characteristic of 
the peasantry of Ireland, were there distinctly 
visible, and from that day forward Trelawney 
entertained a profound respect for that down- trod- 
den yet most interesting people. 

Mass being over. Father O’Driscoll threw off 
his robes, except the alb and stole, and proceeded 


188 


NEW lights; or, 


to bless the grave wherein Honora O’Daly was to 
await the Resurrection. The ceremony was brief, 
and the coffin was soon lowered into ‘ the narrow 
house,’ amid the sobs and lamentations of friends 
and relatives. Bernard threw in the first shovelful 
f earth, then the sons in succession, and in half an 
hour the green sod of the churchyard was smoothed 
over the grave, and the mourners having knelt a 
few minutes in prayer, took an unwilling leave of 
‘ the loved’ (but not ‘ the lost’), and ‘ the lone plac® 
of tombs’ was left to its wonted stillness. 


CHAPTER IX. 


** They did not know how fate cai burn 
In hearts once changed from soft .o stem, 

Nor all the false and fatal zeal, 

The convert of revenge can feel/’ 

Bvror’s Siege of CorinStk 

• TJie hand that oped spontaneous to relief, 

The heart whose impulse stayed not for the mind 
To freeze to doubt what charity enjoined.” 

Sm James Trelawney accompanied the ladies 
home after their visit to the school, and was warm- 
ly welcomed by Mr. Ousely, who begged leave to 
introduce to the^-baronet a friend of his, the Rev. 
Mr. O’Hagarty, “ formerly a priest of the Church 
of Rome,” said Ousely, “ but now a minister of 
the Church of England, and curate of this parish. 
And a cursed shame it is to have him a curate — 
which I call being put on dog's allowance. Sir 
James ! you’ll find the reverend gentleman a con- 
founded gay fellow, I promise you. Walk in, Sir 
James, you’re welcome to Ousely Hall, where I 
hope you’ll consider yourself at home !” 

Trelawney bowed his thanks, and having duly 
greeted the reverend gentleman, they both followed 
Ousely into a front parlor. Conversation did not 
flow very freely, for somehow O’Hagarty and the 


190 


EW LIG m s; OR, 


baronet were neither of them willing to talk a 
great deal, and though Ousely himself started a 
number of topics, they were, none of them, kept 
up for any length of time. At length Ousely 
chanced to ask whether Sir James had been to 
Jenkinson’s school with the ladies. The baronet 
answered in the affirmative. 

“Well, and how do you like itl — You must 
have been rejoiced to see such a number of Papist 

brats under good Protestant training! a d d 

fine sight, is it not I” 

• “ Pardon me, Mr. Ousely ! I am not quite of 
your opinion regarding those schools. ’ 

“ The d — ^1 you’re not cried Ousely, while the 
ex-priest opened his sleepy-looking gray eyes as 
wide as they could stare. “ And pray what is 
your opinion of the schools — I presume you have 
formed one I” 

“ Most assuredly I have !” replied Trelawney. 
“ In the first place, I see no reason why Roman 
Catholic children should be taken from their own 
rightful teachers, and subjected to Protestant 
training, as you say. What is the object of this, 
or on what principle of right can you justify it I” 
“Justify it — justify it? Why, simply because 
it is always just and lawful to diffuse the ennobling 
spirit of Protestantism — ” 

“ Yes,” added O’llagarty, “ and to emancipate 
the mind from the slavish yoke of Popery. This, 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


191 


sir, is or ought to be the grand object of all true 
Protestants !” 

“ You say so, sir !” said Trelawney calmly. 

“ Yes, I say it, and I maintain it !” 

“ Well ! but the principle, sir — on what princi- 
ple can you do this thing 

“ Oh ! as to the principle !” exclaimed Ousely, 
snapping his fingers, “ I don’t care that for 
principles. Protestantism must ho, spread, do you 
see, by one means or the other, and I never trouble 
myself with any scruples as to how it is to be done. 
In religion, as in war, every stratagem is fair, so 
long as it tends to promote the ultimate object. 
Hang it, that’s my notion. Let that pass, now, for 
you’ll get no more out of me. I hope you can 
find no fault with the system of teaching there 

“ No, no,” said O’Hagarty, opening his box and 
taking a huge pinch of snuff; “ I am sure the gen- 
tleman must approve of the system ; Mr. Jenk in- 
son is an excellent teacher — a capital teacher all 
out.” 

“ I am sorry to diffei from you once again, 
gentlemen,” said Trelawney, “but as you have asked 
my opinion, I must tell you <jandidly that the only 
thing systematic in Mr. Jenkinson’k teaching is hia 
constant ab/ise of Popery. Now it strikes me that 
that is a very poor substitute for useful knowledge, 
the knowledge of God and of our own dependence 
f>n Him, with the various obligations which bind 


92 


NEW lights; or, 


ns to Him and to society. Such billhigsgate abuse 
of the Catholic Church might and may do if the 
boys and girls are all intended for taking a part in 
the fantastic exhibitions of Exeter Hall, but other- 
wise it is good for nothing.” 

“ Why, deuce take me. Sir James !” cried 
Ousely, with a horse laugh, “ but I think you’re 
half a Papist yourself !” 

“ The gentleman is certainly no warm supporter 
of Protestantism — that’s plain enough, I think,” 
observed the Rev. Mr. O’Hagarty, taking another 
pinch of snuff, and then handing the box to Sir 
James. 

“ Thank you,” said the baronet with a slight 
bow, ‘ I never take snuff. But you are quite 
mistaken, gentlemen, in supposing me to favor the 
Catholics. On the contrary, I was, until very re- 
cently, an energetic opponent of theirs.” 

“ Oh ho ! I see,” said O’Hagarty, with emphasis, 
“ until very recently ! — that’s as much as to say 
that you’re not so still — eh 1” 

“ I am not aware, sir,” said Trelawney, haughtily, 
“ that you have any right to question me as to 
what change my opinions may have undergone. 
Mr. O’Hagarty probably supposes that the Oxford 
graduates are all on an inclined plane, but I am not 
of Oxford,” he added, with a good-humored smile. 
“ Cambridge is my Alma mater. Excuse me, 
gentlemen, here are the ladies 1” He arose and 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


19S 


went to join them at a distant window, where 
Eleanor was pointing out to her mother the beau- 
tifal tints of the autumnal foliage in the woods 
around. 

“I come to take shelter with you, ladies !” said 
Trolawney. “Those gentlemen are bent on po- 
lemics, and I have left them to talk the subject out 
between themselves.” 

“ You were in warm quarters there,” observed 
Eleanor archly, as she glanced at her father and 
O’Hagarty, both of whom were talking and 
gesticulating at a fearful rate. You showed your 
prudence by effecting a retreat, remembering the 
•old adage, that 

He who fights and rnns away, 

May live to fight another day.” 

“ Thanks,” said Trelawney, “ I accept your com- 
pliment, doubtful as it is. Are you so fortunate 
as to be acquainted with yonder reverend charlatan 
- — I beg your pardon, Mrs. Ousely — I mean this 
Mr. O’Hagarty f’ 

“ We are both of us so far privileged,” said 
Eleanor, laughing. “ We merely turned aside, you 
know, to admire the extreme beauty of those 
‘ melancholy woods,’ and are now on our way to 
do the amiable to my father’s reverend guest — 
despicable renegade !” she added in an under tone, 
heard only by Sir James, as they had fallen behind 
her mother. 


17 


194 


NEW lights; cr, 


“I quite agree with your flattering encomljin i” 
Raid Trelawney in the same tone ; “ what a dull, 
unmeaning countenance the man has, and yet what 
vulgar confidence in look and mien. I pity the 
cause that depends on the advocacy of such men 
as he !” 

Conversation now became general, and the time 
passed pleasantly away, till the appearance of 
John’s smiling physiognomy at the door, and his 
loud, full voice, announcing dinner, put a very 
agreeable stop to the long-winded account which 
Mr. O’Hagarty was giving of a great Bible meet- 
ing which took place somewhere “away down east.” 

The dinner went off amazingly well, and, all 
things considered, very pleasantly. The soup 
was excellent; the fish exceedingly fine, taken 
by Ousely himself, as he assured his guests, within 
twenty-four hours; in short, the dinner was fit 
to please an epicure, and appeared to give entire 
satisfaction to Mr. O’Hagarty, whose eyes twinkled 
with unwonted light as course after course was 
introduced, and his appetite really appeared to 
“ grow and flourish” as the meal wore on. The 
feast was, however, anything in the world but “ the 
feast of reason,” notwithstanding that there w'as 
much loud talk and noisy hilarity, kept up, princi- 
pally, by the host and his reverend guest, who, to 
do him justice, was an excellent boon companion. 
Trelawney was seated between Mrs. Ousely and 


LIFE IN G ALWAY. 195 

her druighter, and whatever “ flow o' soui” there 
was at the table was entirely confined to them- 
selves. When the ladies were retiring, Mrs. Ousely 
tapped the baronet on the shoulder : “ Mind and 
do not stay long here ! join us in the drawing-room 
as soon as you can.” Trelawney bowed and 
smiled assent, and began to meditate a speedy 
retreat, looking after the ladies with a sigh as they 
vanished through the door. He was not to escape, 
however, so easily as he had expected, for when 
the wine so plentifully quaffed during dinner began 
to work on the brains of the two exemplary 
supporters of Episcopal Protestantism, it drew 
out some interesting revelations, for which Tre- 
lawney was by no means prepared. He had 
refused to drink Ousely ’s toast, consigning the 
Pope to warm quarters, wEereupon the two 
worthies attacked him for his reasons why he 
would not drink it. “ Because,” said Trelawney, 
“ I consider the Pope as a character to be revered 
— as the head of the greatest and most important 
association the world has ever seen, and as such 
entitled to our respect. And as to his own 
individual character, I think Pius the Ninth one of 
tlie greatest and most eslimable men of our age. 
If I must drink a toast, I raise my glass to him, 
the great and good Bishop of Rome.” 

“ Why, wliat the d — 1 do you mean. Sir James f’ 
cried Ousely, already more than ‘ half seas over* 


NEW lights; or, 


i9( 

— “ d) you mean to insult me? You are no Pro- 
testant, sir, if you refuse to drink that toast !” 

“ No, sir, you’re no Protestant !” echoed O’Ha- 
garty. 

“ Perhaps I am just as good a Protestant as 
either of you^ gentlemen, pardon me for saying 
so !” said Trelawney, with his quiet smile. “ I may 
be a good Protestant, I hope, without dealing out 
damnation to those who have never done me wrong. 
Now tell me candidly, gentlemen, is either of you 
a Protestant from conviction — I ask you as gen* 
tlemen, as men of honor ?” 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho !” laughed O’Hagarty, now 
thoroughly fuddled, “ I protest that’s a good joke. 
Now what does the lad mean by a Protestant on 
conviction ? Why, man alive ! there’s no such 
thing, at least amongst those who go over from 
Popery.” 

“Then what brings them over?” inquired 
Trelawney, carelessly. 

“ What brings them over, is it ? Why, now. 
Mister Ousely, this English friend of yours is 
more of a fool than I took him for. Why, my 
dear sir — I think they said you were a baronet” — 
Sir James bowed — “well, sir, what’s that you 
asked me — oh ! (hiccup) yes, I know — why, sir, 
some go over for soup, (and it’s none of the best 
after all, the blackguards !) some because they had 
comini ttvi depredations that made them litt’e 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


191 


thought of amongst the old stock, and some went 
for spite — myself for instance !” 

“ For spite, my dear sir ! — how do you mean I” 

“ Oh ! come ! come ! none of your questions new 
— you see there was a little sly affair found out 
on me one fine morning” — he cast a knowing leer 
at Ousely ; “ and so I found out in my turn that 
the Bishop w'as coming to suspend me, or maybe 
worse, so I took leg bail, as the saying is, and came 
over to these free and easy Christians who are not 
so cursed particular. The Popish religion, sir, is 
just like a vice wdien you’re in it — you havn’t 
room, I mean leave, to turn — you’re bound hand 
and foot, sir — hand and foot, and soul, and mind-- 
every little matter is a sin, and a man hasn’t the 
life of a dog in it. It’s an old fashioned religion, 
you see, sir, that doesn’t make any allowance 
for human frailty; all for' the kingdom come, 
and nothing at all for this jolly little world of 
ours.” He then guzzled down another bumper, 
and sang in a thick, husky voice : 

“ ‘ They may rail at thi? life • from the hour I began it, 

I have found it a life full of kindness and bliss ; 

And, until you ca». sho’vv mo some happier planet, 

More social and bright, I’ll content me with^his.’ 

“ Hip ! hip ! hurra !” 

“ Why, deuce take you, old fellow !” shouted 
Ousely, “ sure you never told me before the cause 
of your leaving Rome, the brazen harlot I why. 

17 * 


198 NEW lights; or, 

your story is something like iny own — by Jupitcl 
it is !” 

“ How is that, sir 1 was it spite brought you 
over, too V said Trelawney. 

“ No, no, my lad, I was never brought over. I 
was born a good Protestant, for my progenitors, 
male and female, were what you might call real 
sticklers for the Reformation. Is it I brought 
over 1 I scorn the suspicion of having ever been a 
Romanist.” 

“And you might easily be worse than a Ro- 
manist, I can tell you, Mr. Ousely !” muttered 
O’llagarty. “ Only for it’s being so strict, you’d 
never catch me a Protestant. Paugh ! a Protestant 
indeed — a man might as well be an Atheist, or a 
Mahometan, only just that the other is the best 
market in this country.” 

“ What’s that you’re muttering there, O’Hagar- 
ty r’ 

“ Oh ! some of his old Latin prayers or 
incantations,” said Trelawney, anxious to preserve 
peace. “ You were about to favor us with a story 
of some kind, were you not 

“ Was I, indeed 1 what story ' 

“ You said your story was something like that of * 
Mr. O’Hagarty, if I mistake not.” 

“ Oh 1 by Jove, yes ! I meant that affair of 
little Betsy, that went all over the country, I 
believe Betsy was the d — 1 of a fine girl. Sir 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


19D 


James, though she was a sort of a Papist. She 
had a confounded old growler of a husband, th(/ugh, 
and when he found out that Betsy and myself 
were on good terms, he went straight to the priest 
Well! the priest that was in this parish then — 
some five or six years ago, was flaming mad when 
he heard of it — he went and spoke to Betsy about 
it time after time, but could make nothing of her, 

poor faithful creature! so, what did the d d 

old hypocrite do, but he denounced my poor Betsy 
from the altar, and forbid any one to have anything 
to say to her, till she’d give up the connection, as 
he said. This frightened the poor thing, and she 
got so, that if I’d go within a hundred yards of 
her she’d run away So- you see I lost Betsy, and 
was insulted besides, by the interference of that 
contemptible Eomish priest. But I’ve had my 

revenge, by h I had — I swore to put down 

Popery as far as I was able, and .while there’s 
breath in my body. I’ll do it. Eeligion has no 
business interfering in people’s family affairs, and 
m show Popery that it hasn’t, or my name’s not 
Harrington Ousely.” 

Trelawney was shocked to hear these revolting 
confessions, but he strove to maintain ar air of 
indifference. And how do you succeed, gentle- 
men, in your laudable efforts to overturn the old 
Church f ’ 

“ Not half nor quarter as well as we’d wish,” 


200 


NEW lights; or 


criec Ousely, taking the word out of O'Hagarty’a 
nioi th. 

“ And to what cause do you attribute your want 
of success 1” 

“ To what cause ? why, to the mulish obstinacy 
of these Irish Papists — what else T’ 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho !” laughed O’Hagarty again with 
his dissonant voice ; “ Mulish obstinacy, indeed ! 
by my word, you know little about it. Ho ! ho ! 
ho ! convert the Irish people, indeed — faith, that’s 
a good notion ! Why, Mr. Ousely ! you might 
iust as well think to make the whole of Connemara 
as level as your table, or — or to wash a blackamoor 
white !” 

Ousely was about to make an angry retort, 
when Sir James, standing up, proposed to adjourn 
to the drawing-room, to which the others agreed, 
after some persuasion. 

Let us now return to the O’Daly family, whom 
Ave left on their way home, after heaping the last 
sod on the tender and provident mother, the fond 
and faithful wife. Granny Mulligan took Eveleen 
home by the hand, while Phil Maguire and his 
thrifty wife took charge of Bernard and the eldest 
girls. There was a fresh outbreak of sorrow when 
the mourners reached their now desolate home ; 
when they beheld the straw chair in the chimney 
corner, and thought how she, who for long years 
liad sat in “ that old arm chair,” was now moulder- 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


201 


big ill the earth — the warm, loving heart was cold 
and pulseless ; the mild, soft eyes, that never 
looked on husband, child, or friend without a 
beaming smile of love, were closed for ever. 
These thoughts filled every heart to bursting, and, 
for some time, they all sat weeping in silent sor- 
row, till granny Mulligan, rubbing her eyes with 
her blue apron, started to her feet : “ Come, come, 
children, this ’ill never do — get up now, Kathleen 
an’ Bridget, an’ we’ll see about gettin’ some dinner. 
Tut ! tut ! Bernard ! it ’ud be enough for a child 
to cry that-a-way — why, I declare to my sins, little 
Eveleen’s not one-half so bad. Be off out there, 
boys, an’ see if Tom Shanaghan’s pigs arn’t in the- 
oats ! Blessed hour, children ! get up out o’ that, 
and stir yourselves to put the place to rights. 
Nanny Maguire, honest woman !” she winked at 
Nanny, who well understood her benevolent pur- 
pose; “Nanny Maguire, I say! if you go home, 
you’ll find something to do ! it’s a shame for you 
to be helpin’ these cnildren up with their nonsense. 
Where’s my stick ? I’ll soon make you all jump ! 
Eveleen, rny pet I did you see that stick of mine 

With all their sorrow, the young people could 
not help laughing to see granny bustling about, 
looking for her stick to hunt them, and the kitchen 
was quickly cleared. 

“ Why, blood alive I granny ! sure you wouldn’t 
Date us said Phil, affecting bodily terror. 


902 


NEW lights; or, 


“ Get out of my way, then,” said granny, “ or 
hy this an’ by that I’ll lay this cant across your 
shoulders.” 

“ Oh ! murdher ! murdher !” cried Phil, you’re 
a terrible woman, sure enough. Come away, 
Nannyj heney, or this ould woman will lather us, 
bad scran to her !” 

“That’s right,” whispered granny, coming up 
close to the worthy pair ; “ the sight of you is 
only makin’ them worse, an’ they’ll do no good 
while you’re here. “ I’ll be up with you to-mor- 
row or next day, as soon as I see thing?^ to rights 
here.” 

Bernard roused himself from his soiTOwful 
reverie^ to “ go a piece” with Phil and Nanny, for 
the young men had already taken granny’s advice, 
and were gone abroad into the fields, t( commune 
together over their heavy loss. 

A week passed away, then another, and the grief 
of the family began to lose its first poignancy. 
Mr. Ousely had been prevailed upon (through the 
mediation of his daughter) to grant a few months’ 
reprieve, and, with something like renewed hope, 
the family-plans were again brought forward, and 
Cormac and Daniel ventured to remind their father 
of his promise to let them go to America. The 
old man was, at first, unwilling to hear the subject 
mentioned, for his heart was heavy, and well-nigh 
broken because of his recent loss, but after a few 


LIFE IN GALWAT. 


203 


days he began to consider Cor mac’s arguments, 
and was forced to admit their justice. Finally, 
he gave his consent, though, as he did so, the tears 
W'ere streaming down his farrowed cheeks. 

“ It’s hard, hard,” he said, “ to part with two of 
the boys, when the grass is scarcely green yet over 
their poor mother — the Lord resave her in glory ! 
But sure I know — I know it’s all for the best!” 

“ Be assured it is, my dear father,” said Cormac ; 
“ if we go now, with the blessing of God we may 
be able to send you what will help to pay off your 
arrears, before the first of May — we can do a good 
deal in nine months, you know, if we get anything 
worth while to earn !” 

“Well! well! I suppose it’s God’s will,” said 
Bernard with a sigh ; “ my time here won’t be 
long, children, but if you could redeem the place 
for yourselves. I’d be well plased, an’ very thank- 
ful. But what’s to be done about the outfittin’, 
Kathleen dear — it falls on you now, ma colleen 
Kathleen looked at Cormac, then at Bridget, 
and she sighed. She knew of no way of raising 
the necessaries for the voyage, but she would not 
grieve her father by saying so. “ Well ! we’ll do 
our best, father. With God’s help, we’ll have all 
ready — ^but when are you going, Cormac V 

“ As soon as I can, Kathleen,” said her brother 
wil^ a melancholy smile, which Kathleen well 
understood, and so did little Eveleen, toe for she 




£04 


KEW LI GHTS ; OR, 


Baid quickly : “ If we can only get the things you 
want — indeed, I hope you’ll not get them, so I do 
— I’ll pray every night and morning that you and 
Daniel may have to stay at home, now mind that, 
Cormac !” 

“ Well, but, Eveleen ! my poor child,” said her fir 
ther, “ if it’s the will of God that they must go, you 
know we can’t have it our own way. If you do 
pray, dear, say if it’s His will to let them stay with 
us !” 

“ Oh yes !” said Eveleen, pouting her pretty 
lips ; “ but if I’d pray hard, hard. I’m sure God 
wouldn’t refuse me — doesn’t He ever change his 
mind like us f’ 

Cormac laughed, and even Bernard smiled, as 
he smoothed down the child’s silken tresses. “ No, 
Eveleen dear !” said Cormac ; “ the decrees of 
God are immutable — He works out his own wise 
purposes totally independent of our conflicting 
plans. Still, we are permitted to ask Him for 
what we desire, always providing that it be His 
holy will, or if it be profitable for our salvation.” 

Still Eveleen could not be convinced but that 
she ought to pray without any conditions, and she 
would ask the Blessed Virgin to pray, too, “and 
then, you know, I’m sure to get my prayer.” 

“Well! well! Eveleen, pray as much as you 
like,” said Bridget ; “ only help us to sow some in 
the meantime — there’s the making of three or four 




LIF S IN GALWAY. 


205 


shirts there, that my aunt Biddy sen<t from Clifden, 
80 we must all get to work af them, and there’s 
no one can hem half so well as Eveleen. Come 
away, now, dear, and I’ll get you something to do.’’ 

At this time, granny Mulligan was spending a 
few days at Phil Maguire’s, according to promise, 
and seeing that there was a great hurry of work, 
she insisted either on helping Katty Boyce with 
the spinning, or Nanny with the knitting. 

“Well, then, if you must be doin’ something,” 
said Nanny, “just cast on another pair of stockin’s 
— we have only the one wheel, you see, an’ it’s best 
to keep Katty to the spinnin’, for she’s a brave hand 
at it.” 

“ Get me the needles, then,” said granny, “ for I 
don’t want to be idle. But what hurry are you 
in, if it’s no harm to ask 1 ” 

“ Och, na hochlish, granny” — she gave her a 
nudge with her elbow to say no more. Then low- 
ering her voice, “ sure isn’t it for Cormac an’ Dan 
we’re hurryin’ % Husht ! not a word now — Phil 
knows nothing about it.” 

“ Don’t I, indeed 1 ” said Phil to himself, for he 
overheard the discourse. “ JSfa bochlish^ Nanny, as 
vou say yourself!” 

“ So the three women worked hard and fast for 
a whole week, and at the end of that time, on 
Friday evening, Nanny tied up half a dozen pairs 
of good woollen hose in a bundle, and leaving 
is 


206 


NEW LIGHTSJ OR, 


granny to take care of the house, iuiked Phil if ho 
wouldn’t go down with her to Bernard O’Daly’s. 

“ Why what do you want me for 1” said Phil. 

“ Och, nothing at all, only that it’ll be darkish 
when I’m cornin’ back, an’ you know I’m Cowardly 
in the dark.” 

“ Well ! but what’s takin’ you down now, woman 
dear 

“ Well, now, arn’t yOu inquisitive ?” said Nanny ; 
don’t I want to see the boys afore they go 

“ Are you goin’ to bring them anything 1” said 
Phil, with an arch glance at the bundle, plainly 
visible under her cloak. 

“ Botheration, Phil ! what would I be bringin’ 
them 1 I can’t be always bringin’. Will you come 
or stay 1” 

“ ni stay,” said Phil, coolly. 

“ Well ! that’s all you can do,” retorted Nanny, 
and off she went, her bundle under her arm, all 
unnoticed, as she supposed. She had not gone 
far from the door, when Phil was at her side, 
laughing till you’d think his heart would break, as 
Nanny afterwards said. 

“ I say, Nanny, what’s that you’ve under your 
arm there, like a Hallow-eve goose f’ and he laid 
hold of the bundle. 

“Mind your own business, Phil Maguire, an 
don’t be botherin’ me. What do you be watohin 
me for this way V’ 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


207 


Why, I thought, Nanny,” said Phil, still laugh- 
ing, “ that you couldn’t afford to give ary more to 
the O’Dalys — eh, Nanny! an’ that ‘the nimbk 
fingers’ had something else to do besides knittin' 
for Cormac. Ah 1 ha ! Nanny, I’ve caught you 
this time. Sure I knew well enough, woman dear, 
that your bark was worse than your bite. Well, 
come along — I b’lieve I will step down with you.” 
They were jogging along very smoothly and quietly 
together, when Nanny suddenly discovered that 
Phil had a suspicious-looking bulk under the off 
arm, as she said, and she instantly began to bristle 
up. 

“ Arrah then, Phil Maguire, what’s that you have 
in that bundle 

“ Mind your own business, Nanny,” retorted 
Phil in her own words, “ an’ don’t be botherin’ 
me. Step out, woman alive ! the night’s drawin’ 
on !” 

“ I’ll not go a step farther,” said Nanny, plant- 
ing her foot firmly on the spot where she stood, 
“ till you tell me what it is !” 

“ Hut ! tut, Nanny, don’t be makin’ a fool of 
yourself,” said Phil, still keeping on his way. 

Nanny came up at a brisk trot and placed her 
hand on the bundle. “ Why then, bad m^^nners to 
you, Phil, is it my beautiful web of linen you’ve 
in it ? I hope you' don’t intend givin’ that ]” 

“ ’Deed an I jist do, then, Nanny !” 


208 


NEW lights; or, 


“ Not a bit of it you’ll give — I’d see them 

far enough before I’d give them my beautiful fine 
web of linen, that cost me a whole winther cardin’ 
an’ spinnin’ — jist give it to me here now !” 

“ That’s always the way with you, Nanny !” 
said Phil, keeping fast hold of his prize ; “ now 
I’ll warrant if I open your bundle there, I’ll find 
something else besides the stockin’s — you’ll give 
yourself, undher-hand, but you don’t want me to 
give anything at all. Didn’t I tell you I’d buy 
you the makin’ of a gown if you’d make the frieze 
— now, I’ll keep my word, if you’ll only keep a 
quiet tongue in your head.” 

“ Ay, but it ’id be a good gown that ’id be worth 
as much as my web of linen. 1 tell you I’ll not 
give it, now that’s all about it.” 

“ Well ! well !” said Phil with a heavy sigh, “ I 
see you’ll have your own way — there, then, take it 
home with you, an’ I’ll go on without it. It’s little 
poor Ilonora — the Lord be good and merciful to 
her ! — would expect this from Nanny Maguire ! 
I’m sure, if she could see an’ hear what’s pas- 
sin’ now, she’d think it was some other body 
was in it, an’ not Nanny Maguire at all ; for she’d 
say to herself that Nanny Maguire wouldn’t 
grudge the makin’ of a few shirts to the poor 
motherless boys, but it can’t be helped’” IIo 
was walking on in pretended sorrow, but had not 
gone fill when Nanny was beside him. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


aoB 

“ Well ! are you cornin’, Nanny 1 I thought you 
had turned back !” 

“ No ! I didn’t turn back — don’t I want to take 
these stockin’s down, as I have them knit 1” 

The stockings were given into Kathleen’s handg 
in the course of half an hour, and so was the linen, 
too, though Nanny slipped it on her knee, and 
threw her apron up over it. In vain did Kathleen 
refuse to take such a valuable present ; Nanny 
was resolute, and would not be refused. “ An’ I’ll 
come dovm a day or two in the beginnin’ of the 
week,” she added, “ an’ help you to make the 
shirts. Say nothing about it, though, till I come,” 
and she squeezed her hand impressively. Mean- 
while, Phil, though apparently talking with Bernard 
and his sons, had, by various wdnks and signs, 
fixed their attention on Nanny’s movements, the 
kind, though somewhat eccentric creature being 
ioo much engrossed to heed them, or to discover 
that they were watching her with interest. 

Nancy Breen, too, brought in her contribution 
of provisions towards making up the sea-store, and 
Miss Ousely prevailed upon her mother to send 
down several articles likely to be useful to the 
young men. What with one thing and what with 
another, they were well provided in clothes and 
all the other necessaries of the voyage; it was 
only the money that was wanting. This, however 
was not the least important, and many a consulta 

IS* 


210 


NEW lights; or, 


tion was held on the subject, b it with little success. 
It would take six pounds, at the lowest calculation, 
and that was a very large sum in the present state cf 
affairs. Several of the neighbors were tried, 
to see if they would lend the money till such times 
as Cormac and Daniel could repay them, but all in 
vain. Father O’Driscoll was at length consulted, and 
at first he shook his head, and his countenance felb 
After a moment’s reflection, the whole family 
watching him with anxious eyes, he looked up and 
smiled: “Well, well, Bernard! we may try to 
raise the money — the boys must not be detained 
for so small a sum — and yet it is not so small, 
either 1” he added to himself. “ Cormac, could 
you walk home with me when I’m going 1 I can 
get you four pounds at any rate, as Nancy Breen 
has that much saved with me, and I know she’ll 
be happy to lend it to you.” 

“ Many thanks to you, Father O’Driscoll 1” said 
Cormac, his pale cheek blushing like scarlet, “ I’ll 
go with your reverence, and welcome.” 

Father O’Driscoll and Cormac were scarcely 
gone, when in came Phil and Nanny Maguire, and 
with them granny Mulligan, who said she was 
come to stay till after ‘ the boys’ were gone. Eve- 
leen started to her feet, and running up to granny, 
threw her arms around her neck, shouting : 
“We’ve got it, granny, wt’ve got the most of it; 
tJt mdeed, I’d as soon Father O’Driscoll said 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


2U 


nothing about it, for .now Fm afeard my prayers 
will be of no use.” 

“What are you talkin’ about, Eveleen?” said 
granny ; “ what is it that you’ve got F’ 

“ Why, the money to pay Cormac and Daniel’s 
passage. We havn’t it all, though, only four 
pounds — father says we want two more.” 

“ Husht now, Eveleen !” said her father, fearful 
lest Phil Maguire might take the hint, and offer 
the money. “ You’re too ready with the tongue, 
daughter dear !” 

The visitors put it off with a joke, and then 
suffered the matter to drop. Phil and Nanny 
staid for an hour or so, till Cormac got back with 
the four pounds, and then they hurried away. On 
the way home, they agreed between them that the 
poor boys must not be taken short for such a trifle, 
“ especially,” said Nanny, “ as they’ll be sendin’ 
it back by an’ bye, an’ who knows but they’d be 
sendin’ myself some handsome present into the 
bargain. Go down in the mornin’ with it, Phil.” 

But Phil’s money wds not needed, for that night 
granny Mulligan took Cormac into the room, and 
taking out an old faded thrash-bag, told him to 
take what he would find sowed in the one end 
of it. “ There’s not much, Cormac dear I” said 
the kind old woman ; “ but there’s as much as you 
want now. I w'as keepin’ it to bury me, an’ to get 
masses said for my pool sowl when Fm gone, but 


2112 


NEW lights; or, 


I’ll trust to God to give you the manes of sendin 
it back before I die, an’ if yo I’re not able to do it, 
why don’t fret about it, aroon. Poor granny Mul- 
ligan ^as friends enough to bury her dacently, 
even if she hasn’t a shillin’. God bless you, 
Cormac ! an’ if I die while you’re away, I hope 
you’ll pray for me — that’s all 1 want you to do. 
Not a word, now — I’ll be offended at you if you 
say a word agin takin’ what I give you.” 

Thus interdicted, Cormac could only squeeze the 
hard, skinny hand held out to him, and, with tears 
in his eyes, invoke a blessing on the head of his 
generous old friend — the houseless^ homeless wan- 
derer, with the heart of a princess. Great was the 
ioy of the whole family, Eveleen only excepted, 
W’hen Cormac announced his good fortune, and it 
was, indeed, better than he had even anticipated, 
for the old thrash-bag, when ripped open, was 
found to contain four gold guineas. Cormac 
proposed to return the half of it to granny, but 
she stopped him short, saying snappishly : “ Didn’t 
I give you the thrash-bag to keep needles an’ thread 
in, for sowin’ on a, button or the like ? It’s yours, 
I tell you, an’ don’t be botherin’ me any moie 
about it.” 

On the eve of the day appointed for the young 
men’s departure, Phil Maguire came with three 
pounds, and was no little surprised to hear that 
somebody had been beforehand with him. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. ‘JIS 

“ Why, where in the world wide did you get 
it, Cormac f ’ he asked in surprise. 

“ I’ll jist tell you that, Phil,” said granny, wink- 
ing at Cormac to keep silent. “ There came in a 
little ould woman last night, here, an’ gave Cormac 
an ould thrash-hag not worth a traneen^ but when 
l.e came to open it, bedad ! there was no less than 
fbuY goold ginnys in it. Sorra word o’ lie I’m 
tfdlin’, am I, now, Bernard 

“ Aha !” said Eveleen, “ I know who it was !” 
and she smiled archly. 

“ An’ so do I, Eveleen !” said Phil. “ I know 
an ould woman that had four goold ginnys these 
ten years back, for a certain purpose. Well! 
God reward her, anyhow — ” he stopped, coughed, 
looked at granny’s smiling old face ; then got up 
and shook her hand warmly, and sat down again 
without saying another word, but in his own mind 
he made a solemn promise, that if God spared 
him to outlive granny Mulligan, she should be “ as 
dacently buried as e’er a woman in the country.” 

Next day Cormac and Daniel set out for Galway 
to take shipping for Philadelphia, being accompa- 
nied for several miles of the way by a numerous 
escort. Father O’Driscoll had been to the house 
in the morning, and gave the young men a letter 
of introduction to a priest in Philadelphia, who 
had been a fellow-student of his. The two brothers 
knelt to get his blessing, and were both cheered 


J14 NEW LiaHTS; OB, 

and encouraged w hen he breathed a fervent prayer 
for their success. Bernard and the girls went back 
with the rest of ‘ the convoy,’ but Owen and Phil 
Maguire, with Larry Colgan and one or two others, 
>rent with them all the way to Galway, nor parted 
them till they saw. them on ship-board. At part- 
ing, Phil whispered in Cormac’s ear, “ Don’t fret 
about them that you’re leavin’ behind, leave them 
to God’ an’ Phil Maguire, till such times as > 08 
can send them help.” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 




CHAPTER X. 

Truth, crush’d to earth, shall rise a|^am 
Th’ eternal years of God are hers ; 

But error, wounded, writhes with pain, 

And dies among his worshippers. — ^W. C Bataht. 

Duiti the three weeks that followed the death 
of Hont,'»*a O’Daly, Sir James Trelawney had been 
cultivati^g the acquaintance of Father O’Driscoll, 
for whom he began to entertain feelings both of 
respect acd admiration. Scarcely a day passed 
without his seeing the good priest, who, on his 
part, regarded the frank and high-minded and gen- 
erous youn^' Englishman with no ordinary degree 
of interest. Father O’Driscoll saw from the first 
that his young friend was, like Eleanor Ousely, 
desirous of knowing the truth, and solicitous to 
understand the Irish people in their relations with 
Catholicity. He saw that the prejudices arising 
from early and erroneous impressions were gradu- 
ally disappearing before the increasing light of 
truth, aided by assiduous study, but he carefully 
avoided any direct allusion to controversial sub- 
jects, and never went out of his way to attack 
either Protestant doctrines or Protestant practices. 
Alone with his God, he prayed earnestly and fei> 


216 


NEW LIGHTS; OR 


vently for the conversion of Trelawney and of 
Eleanoi- ; that their minds, already so enlightened 
and so well-disposed, might be brought to see the 
necessity of joining ‘ the one fold,’ but with them 
he never broached the subject, though he met both 
very frequently, Trelawney at his own house, and 
Eleanor in the cottages of her father’s poor tenantry, 
while occasionally they all met around the hospita- 
ble board of Mr. Dixon. 

“ The more I see of Father O’Driscoll,” said 
Trelawney to Eleanor, one evening in the drawing- 
room at Clareview ; “ the more I esteem himself 
and respect his religion.” 

“ I told you it would be so,” said Eleanor, “ for 
even I, who have known him for years, can say 
the same. His virtues are of that quiet, unpre- 
tending kind, which gradually unfold themselves 
to our view, and captivate our esteem, nay, our 
veneration, without our ever suspecting that there 
is anything remarkable about the man.” 

“For my part,” said Sir James, “I consider 
such a man as the greatest blessing in society ; 
heart and soul devoted to the good of his fellow 
men, with the grand ulterior view of promoting 
religion and the glory of God ; pursuing ‘ the 
calm, unbroken tenor of his w^ay’ through good re- 
port and evil report, without any of those earthly 
ties which bind the heart to this world ; devoting 
the greater part of his small income to the relief 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


217 


of his suffering flock, as I know he does ; oh ! 
surely, Miss Ousely ! such a man as this cannot 
be the minister of a corrupt and corrupting 
Church !” 

“And who said he was. Sir James'?” said Elea 
nor, smiling at his generous warmth ; “ I am sure 
I never did. Why, my dear sir, if the Catholic 
Church be not the religion of Christ, it has, then, 
disappeared from the earth.” 

“ Am I to understand that you mean the Roman 
Catholic Church f ’ 

“ Certainly, Sir James, I mean no other. There 
was a time when I fondly imagined that our Church 
of England was a branch of the great Catholic 
Church, blit I have since studied the matter by the 
light — not of reason alone, but of reason cou- 
pled with Scripture and Ecclesiastical History, 
and I have come to the conclusion — I trust through 
the mercy of God, that the Koman Church is the 
only ark of safety amid the deluge of corruption 
which covers the earth.” 

“ And did you arrive at this conclusion without 
any outward agency ?” asked Trelawney, more 
and more struck by. the extraordinary power ol 
Eleanor’s mind. 

“ Not exactly,” said Eleanor ; “ my aunt Ormsby 

of whom I have sometimes spoken to you — has 

latel^^ become a convert to Catholicity, and her 
letters have expedited my progress no little. 

19 


NEW lights; or 


IIS 

Neither my father nor mother yet knows of her 
conversion, but I know it, and God knows it,” she 
added with touching fervor. 

“ It is a remarkable fact,” said Trelawney, mus- 
ingly, “ that the converts to the Catholic Church 
are generally, I might say nearly always, from 
amongst the educated classes, while those who go 
forth from her communion are the unlearned — the 
poor — 

“ The starving. Sir James ! allow me to suggest . 
a word. The reason of this difference is very 
plain. The Catholic Church employs no direct 
means to gain converts. She prays for the con- 
version of sinners, infidels and heretics taken 
collectively ; she edifies the world by her admirable 
and ever-renewed works of charity ; she silently 
presents to us the perfection of Christian life, 
exemplified in her monastic orders, and in a vast 
number of her secular clergy. The rest she leaves 
to God, knowing that He only can touch the heart, 
and draw water from the hard rock. Hence it is 
that her converts are those w'ho have time and 
opportunity to read and to think. As for ,the 
converts from Catholicity, ’^hy — the less we say 
the better it is. They are, for the most part, poor 
starving creatures, brought over, like the apothe- 
cary in Hamlet, because of their necessities, to 
sacrifice the hope of heaven for the more immediate 
prospect of preserving their wretched life here on 


LIFE IN GALWAF. 


219 


earth. They are, in nine cases out cf ten, the 
most miserable, the most ignorant,’ and the most 
worthless of the community, and the exceptions 
are scarcely more worthy of respect — the apostacy 
of a priest is the greatest triumph ever obtained 
by the proselytizers, and of that unhappy class, 
you have a very fair specimen in my father’s bosom 
crony, Mr. O’Hagarty. I have seen several indi- 
viduals of the species, and 1 can solemnly assure 
you that such is the case ; meet an apostate priest 
where you will, and you will find him stamped 
with sensuality, gross selfishness, rabid vindictive- 
ness, directed against the Church which he had 
disgraced by his ministry.” 

“ In the same way,” said Trelawney, “ that Satan 
and his rebel angels are the most inveterate haters 
of God, and would fain d^bar all mankind from 
that heaven which themselves have lost for ever — 
a very natural feeling, all things considered.” 

“ What’s going on now?” said Amelia Dixon, a 
light-hearted, happy-looking girl of eighteen or 
nineteen, as she threw herself on the sofa beside 
Eleanor; “I really think you two are plotting 
some mischief — take care that we do not find 
some vile Meal-tub Plot coming to light one of 
these days ; you the Titus Oates, cousin, and my 
sedate friend, Eleanor, the — who — oh ! ye stars, 
help me to a name! — what a pity Nell Gwynn 


220 


NEW lights; or, 


wasn’t a party concerned — your name would just 
suit, you know, Nell !” 

“ You are exceedingly kind,” said Eleanor, 
laughing ; “ but as you are rather unfortunate in 
your historical allusions, don’t trouble yourself 
ransacking amongst the debauched men and women 
of the Merry Monarch’s court, for comparisons 
which might be invidious. Just tell Sir James 
how you came to give up those notions which you 
had a year or two ago, about converting the -Pa- 
pists. Perhaps, though, you have told him already 

“ No, indeed, not a word of it — he laughs at me 
now for all manner of odd blunders, as he says, 
and I should be very sorry indeed to give him such a 
grand subject as that — I don’t like to have people 
laughing at me !” said Amelia, pouting, and look- 
ing as though she were Jialf inclined to cry, though 
there was a ‘ laughing devil’ lurking in the corner 
of her bright eye, and certain dimples playing 
around her small mouth, which showed her more 
disposed to laugh than to cry. 

“ Come, now, my pretty cousin,” said Sir James, 
“ forget and forgive — I promise beforehand never 
to turn your confession to account against you. I 
should like, of all things, to hear how you came to 
tliink of proselytizing.” 

“ Why, that was not the strangest part of it,” 
said Amelia briskly ; “ we had a governess just 
then, whr was brimful of the notion — my stars ! 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


231 


how she would extemporize on the horrors of Po- 
pery, and on its baneful effects, social, political, 
and religious ! At first, we children used to hiugh 
at her over-drawn pictures — caricatures they were, 
in reality, of what she was pleased to call th^ 
great superstition — sometimes the great delusion—^ 
by way of a change, you know ; but gradually we 
began to listen with more interest, whereupon 
Miss White poured forth her harangues with still 
increasing unction — (isn’t that the word, Eleanor?) 
and what with that and the peculiar nature of our 
studios — as ultra-Protestant and anti-Popish as 
could be — we got our heads full of the romantic 
notion of besieging the citadel of Popery in right 
down earnest. Bless you, cousin James ! we were 
filled with what Miss White called ‘ holy zeal,’ and 
our pocket-money, for many a long day, went into 
the coflers of Bible Societies, and the Church Mis- 
sionary Society,' and the Tract Society, and — oh ! 
dear ! how anxious we were to do something for 
the good cause. Mamma, and papa, ar d Arthur, 
and all the rest, used to laugh at us, but we didn’t 
mind — we only pitied their blindness, and kept 
hoping for their speedy conversion. At last we took 
it into our heads to try our hands amongst papa’s 
tenantry, and so, having provided ourselves with 
ever so many tracts of the most unctious and per- 
suasive kind, we went to work with the most 
sanguine hopes of success. "You should hare seen 

jp* 


S22 


NEW lights; or, 


Eliza and myself, marshalled by Miss White, 
tramping about from cottage to cottage, with our 
reticules and our pockets stuffed full of tracts, 
wdth perhaps a Testament or two in the hands of 
each of us, just by way of sign-post, to denote 
our godly avocation. La me ! what a figure we 
must have cut !” 

Trelawney laughed heartily, and Eleanor smiled. 
Amelia affected a gravity all unusual to her, and 
sat waiting very demurely for her cousin’s mirth 
to subside. When his features were again some- 
w^hat composed, she turned to him very coolly : 

“Well! Sir James, are you done? I thought 
you were not to laugh at me any more — eh ?” 

“ Why ! you little mischievous elf, how could I 
help laughing — but you have the best of it this 
time — and that you well know — you do all you 
can to excite our risible faculties, and then blame 
us for falling into the trap — ‘ Ah ! little trai 
tress 1’ — you know the rest. Pray, proceed with 
your narrative — ^how did you fare amongst the 
peasantry ?” 

“Why, not very well, I must confess!” said 
Amelia, with well-feigned reluctance. “ The result 
was not quite what we expected.” 

“Well, but why not tell all, cara miar said 
Eleanor. 

“ What do you call all^ Eleanor ?” Then turn- 
irg to Trelawmey — “ d he w^hole amount of it is, 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


228 


e<jusin, that we thought we had nothing to do but 
make our appearance, Bible or tract in hand, and 
that, presto^ th-e whole phalanx of Popery would 
v^hisk off out of our sight in a flash of fire — verd^ 
vidi^ vici^ was the real motto of our warfare, though 
to be sure, we didn’t- say so even to each other, 
but lo ! and behold ! the stout old body corporate 
not only resisted, but actually got the better of 
us, and that without an eflbrt. It is a great old 
institution — that same Komish religion ! — this in 
parenthesis, cousin ! Well, seventeenthly, as old 
Mr. Fumbleton says, about the middle of his ser- 
mon, we had only made a few proselytizing visits 
when 1 was glad enough to slip my Testament into 
my pocket, and to tell you the truth, I was profane 
enough to throw a dozen or so of tracts into the 
brook about the same time. Eliza held out a little 
longer than I did, but even she gave up in despair 
after a few weeks, whereupon our saintly duenna 
was fiiiii to desist — ‘ for,’ said she, in the grief of 
her heart, ‘ since you will not accompany me any 
more in my visits of charity — why, I fear I must 
discontinue them altogether, for there is no saying 
what these miserable Romanists might do if they 
caugbt a young lady alone — even as it is, I find 
them anything but civil.’ So ended our campaign 
against Romanism, to the infinite amusement of 
papa and mamma, who used to joke the three of 
us so unmercifully that poor White’s evangelical 


224 


NEW lights; ou, 



temper could not bear it, and one fine ir Drning sbe 
tendered her resignation, which was thankfully 
accepted.” 

“ Alas, poor Yorick !” sighed Trelawney, v,u'th 
affected sympathy. “ But how did the people re- 
ceive you on those occasions? I should rather ask 
how it was that you became so speedily disgusted 
with your selt-imposed task.” 

“ Why, bless your dear simple heart, cousin, /'^in 
you not see the reason ? Have you ever talked 
with the peasantry on religious matters ?” 

“ Not exactly on religious matters?” 

“If you had, you -would need no explanation, 
that’s plain ; why, cousin, I saw from the very first 
(though I left the conversation principally to Miss 
White), that the poor simple cottagers, ignorant 
as they w^ere in other matters — had more correct 
notions of religion, in all its essential doctrines, 
than w'e ourselves had. I actually felt ashamed 
when I heard them give such clear, intelligible an- 
sw^ers to questions which might have puzzled more 
learned men and women. It w'as amusing, how- 
ever, to hear Miss White cross-examining some of ^ 
them. ‘ Poor people !’ she would say, ‘ I pity 
your condition — your minds are s@ darkened by the 
gloomy shadow of Popery. Now if you wmuld 
only believe in the Lord Jesus’ — ‘Stop there, 
ma’am — stop there — sure w'e do b’lieve in him — • 
oh, bedad, we do so — the Lord pity us if wa 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


m 


didn’t !’ — ‘ Oh ! but then, you put too much trust 
in the Virgin; you know or ought to know that the 
Romish Church makes a goddess of her, and prays 
to her as such.’ — ‘ Beggin’ your pardon, that’s not 
thrue. I hope you’ll excuse me, ladies— sure, 
ma’am, we only ask her to pray for us, an’ that’s 
not the way we spake to God, you see. Oh ! be- 
garra, ma’am, it’s not the same case at all — sure 
every child knows that,’ — ‘Well! well!’ Miss 
White would say, a little disconcerted, ‘ but then 
look what nonsense it is to pray to the saints — 
what can they do for youf — ‘ Well, ma’am, if you 
don’t like to ask them to pray for you, why, the 
loss is your own — but it’s our notion, ma’am, that 
it’s a fine thing all out for poor sinful creatures like 
us to have sich friends in heaven to put in a good 
word for us — an’, sure enough, we think it’s no 
throuble to ask them to do it too. You might do 
worse, lady an’ all as you are, than ask them to 
pray for yourself.’ On hearing this, or some such 
answer, Eliza and I would burst out laughing, and 
Miss White w'ould flounce out of the house, mut- 
tering all sorts of execrations against W'hat she 
called the obstinate folly of the Romanists. But 
here’s Arthur with his violin — let us have a dance, 
Eleanor ! Your mother and my mother are lost 
in the mysteries of backgammon in the corner. 
There cousin, take Eleanor’s hand — no excuses 
jow — I’m going cT to hunt up Eliza and Ed- 


ward.” Away she ran, leaving Eleanor and Tre* 
lawney once more tete-a-tUe. 

“ Take Eleanor’s hand !” repeated Trelawney, 
fixing a keen glance on Eleanor, whose eyes sought 
the ground ; “ that were too much bliss for me , 
what a world of happiness is comprised in tha> 
little word, so lightly spoken!” There was au 
earnestness in his tone, which arrested the smile 
that was hovering on Eleanor’s lip, and brought 
the warm blood to her cheek. But her presence 
of mind never forsook her. In a moment she wan 
calm and composed as usual, and said, without ap 
pearing to notice the words just spoken : 

“We were talking of Father O’Driscoll, Sir 
James, were we not ? Tliis episode w^as rather a 
long one 1 — you have, doubtless, made the acquaint- 
ance of some of his flock — what do you think of 
the O’Dalysl” 

“They are a most estimable family!” said 
Trelawney, making an effort to imitate Eleanor in 
her graceful self-possession. “ I have talked a good 
deal with that young man, Cormac, who has just 
lefl for America, and I found him possessed o-^ 
much solid information on very many subjects, 
the whole based on thoroughly religious principles.” 

“You will always find that characteristic in 
Catholics who have been subjected to pur<^ly 
Catholic training. With them religion is at the 
bottom of everything — God the Aljyha and Gmfi.na, 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


227 


Religious instruction is, consequently, the primary 
object in Catholic education, while secular learning 
holds but a secondary place, coming in only as an 
accessory. From the cradle to . the grave, the 
Catholic — that is, the true Catholic — makes religion 
the one grand affair of life, and yet he fulfils all 
human duties with a cheerfulness and a readiness 
that contrasts well with the cold, proud spirit of 
Protestantism. There is no parade or ostentation 
about Catholic charity, as you must already have 
observed.” 

“ Witness Phil Maguire,” said Sir James with a 
smile. 

“ Yes, and his wife Nanny, who, with all her ap- 
parent closeness^ is, at bottom, no whit behind Phil 
in generosity, or rather charity. I have a great 
respect for both of them, and it does my heart good 
to see them trudging along together, like Darby and 
Joan, on Sunday morning, dressed up in their 
best, the very picture of contentment and good 
nature. Ah! I am sure — sure that God looks 
graciously down on that worthy couple, with all 
their quaint eccentricity of manner, for they are 
covered with alms-deeds and good works. I would 
rather be one of those kind-hearted, simple pea- 
sants, praying before the altar of sacrifice in their 
lowly chapel, thanking God alike for the good 
things and the evil things which he sends them, 
than the highest and mightiest of our Protestant 


228 


NEW lights; or, 


magnates, odious before G»)d and his saints because 
of their Polish pride, and hypocritical pretences, 
and stony hearts.” 

“ Why, Miss Ousely, you speak warmly on the 
subject !” observed Trelawney, his own cheek glow- 
ing and his eye flashing with something of Eleanor’s 
excitement. “ You speak of the Irish peasantry 
in a very different way from that in w^hich they are 
represented in Exeter Hall !” 

“ I do,” returned Eleanor, still mo re warmly 
than before, “because I know those of whom I 
speak, and have no interest in caluminating them. 
I have seen them in all the various circumstances 
of life— I have stood by their death-beds, as we 
both did at Honora O’Daly’s, and I tell you, Sir 
James Trelawney, that I have long ago learned to 
reverence their virtues — and the religion by which 
those virtues are fanned into warmth. Very often 
have I felt myself ready to bow down before some 
poor, half-starved man or woman, sitting lone- 
ly and desolate in the cold, bare cabin, when 
amid all the privations of their lot, they would 
raise their eyes to heaven, and say : ‘ God’s will 
be done !’ and then, when I went forth from that 
scene of misery and of heavenly resignation, it 
has often been my lot to meet the Scripture-reader, 
McGilligan or such as he, going in with his bundle 
of books, to mock the sufferings of the unhappy 
inmates with the offer of a tract or a Testament; 


LIFE IN GALWAT?. 


329 


and if you told them of the utter destitution of 
the poor creatures, they would turn up the whites 
of their eyes and groan out : ‘ Alas ! if they would 
only read this blessed book, and believe its glori- 
ous promises !’ Ah, Exeter Hall ! Exeter Hall ! 
have 1 said to myself, these are thy agents — not a 
mouthful of bread for the starving, but plenty of 
tracts and Bibles. But how I am forgetting 
myself!” she suddenly added, seeing the earnest- 
ness with which Trelawney listened. “You, who 
are a stranger, cannot understand these things, or 
enter into my feelings.” 

“ I can and do understand. Miss Ousely — I have 
studied both sides of the question theoretically 
within the last few months, and practically within 
the last few weeks, and therefore” — 

“And therefore, you know the difference, I sup- 
pose, 

* ’Twixt tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee.’ 

“ There, now, fair lady and fine gentleman, as I 
have decided the matter from that reverend au- 
thority, Hudibras, you must e’en give in, and come 
along. We’re going to get up a set of quadrilles 
outside here.” 

There was no getting over Amelia’s off-hand 
hrmquerie of manner, especially as she laid hold 
of Eleanor’s arm on one side and Trelawney’s on 
the ether. So they laughingly gave themselves 
20 


NEW lights; or 


sso 

lip, and marched^ off right willingly with thtir fair 
captor. By the time the young people had got 
through their set of quadrilles — the “Lancers” I 
believe they danced on that particular evening — • 
the elder ladies had finished their game, and Mrs. 
Ousely ordered her carriage. 

“ I thought Mr. Ousely was to come for you V 
remarked Mrs. Dixon. 

“ His promise was only conditional,” said Mrs. 
Ousely, “ and I suspect he has his new friend, Mi\ 
O’llagarty, who often drops in of an evening to 
discuss religious matters, and — ” 

“And drink whiskey-punch, mother,” said 
Eleanor. “ He would have made an admirable 
priest of Bacchus, had he lived in Pagan times !” 

“ The horrid old bore !” exclaimed Amelia. “ I 
can’t endure him — he stares one out of counte- 
nance. I think the Church ot Rome showed its 
good sense, aye, and good taste, too, in getting rid 
of that fellow. I’m very sure that he is no great 
credit to any religious body, for the man looks as 
though he were half stupefied with drink. Eaugh ! 
such converts as we have ! I’m sure they’re not 
worth one half what they cost, and, for my part, 
I think it’s very mean of the Church missionaries 
to have any thing to say to them — belly-friendship 
is poor friendship, and they’ll be all going back 
again to the old. Church when times are getting 
better !” 


LIFE IN GAHVAY. 


231 


Mrs. Dixon laughed afc her daughter’s li7ely 
sally, for she herself had no sort of sympathy with 
the J umpers, but seeing a cloud on Mrs. Ousely’s 
brow, she gently changed the subject, and made a 
sign to Amelia to desist. Sir James and young 
Dixon proposed to accompany the ladies on horse- 
back, and their offer was, after some hesitation, 
accepted. 

Next day, about noon, Trelawney rode up to 
Father O’Driscoll’s door, and asked the house- 
keeper whether the priest was at home. 

“ Well, no, sir,” said Nancy Breen, making a 
low curtsy ; “ he’s just gone down to the poor- 
house about some little orphan girls that they’re 
for makin’ Prodestans of among them. Bad scran 
to them for schamin’ villains, if we haven’t the time 
of it with them, one way an’ the other. Beggin’ 
your pardon, sir, for sayin’ the like before you, 
that’s one o’ themselves.” 

“ I deny it, Nancy,” said Trelawney, laughing, as 
he threw himself off his horse. “I never did or 
never will belong to a fraternity to which good 
people must apply such epithets — I have nothing 
to do with your ‘ scheming villains,’ as you call 
them — and not unjustly. If you will permit me 
to sit down till Father O’Driscoll comes, I shall 
take it as a favor. Here, boy, put my hcrse in 
the stable.” 

Nancy uslicred the visitor into the priest’s little 


232 


NEW lights; or 


sitting-room, and having stirred up the turf fire in 
the small grate, she closed the door, and quietly 
withdrew. Sir James had just taken down a 
volume of St. Alphonsus Liguori’s History of the 
Heresies^ and was just turning over in quest of the 
great English revolt — commonly called the Refor- 
mation, when his attention was arrested by a man’s 
voice, talking with Nancy in the kitchen outside. 

“ Come by an’ sit down, Shane,” said Nancy ; 
“ what’s the best news with you 1 — good news is 
scarce with some of us these times !” 

“Why, then, indeed, Nancy ahagur^ I’ve the 
best news I could wish to have, thanks be to Him 
above !” 

“ Ah, then, do you tell me so, Shane ? an’ what 
is itjCryra % Is there any account from bey ant the 
wather 

“ ’Deed an’ there is, Nancy, ’deed an’ there is 
then. Look there ! that’s what I got in the post- 
office yisterday — and look there again — see what 
was in it !” He hastily opened the' soiled and 
badly-directed letter, well-nigh covered with post- 
marks, and took out a bank-post bill for tm 
pounds, holding it up before Nancy’s widely-dis- 
tended eyes. 

“ W hy, dear bless me, Shane Einegan ! sure you 
didn’t get all that from America — if you did, you’re 
the lucky man all out !” 

“ Faix, an’ I got it jist as you see it, Nancy !” 


LIFE IN QALWAF 


133 

returned Shane, somewhat praudl/. “I always 
knew an’ said — even when nobody b’lieved me — ■ 
that Johnny an’ Susy wouldn’t forget their ould 
father. But is Father O’Driscoll at home— I want 
to spake to him.” There was a suppressed exulta- 
tion in the poor old man’s manner and in his shrilly 
feeble voice, that was in strange contrast with his 
ragged habiliments and poverty-pinched features. 

“He’s not at home, then,” said Nancy; “he’s 
down at the poor-house. Is there anything wrong 
at home f’ Nancy’s curiosity w^as thoroughly 
aroused. 

“ Nothing wrong, thanks be to God, but every- 
thing right : I’ll jist tell you a sacret, Nancy, for 
you’re an ould friend; sure it’s Harry that sent 
me over to spake to the priest.” 

“ Arrah no, then, Shane ! is it thruth you’re 
tollin’ ? Sure we counted Harry as good as lost, 
bekase he went roun’ with the thracts, you see.” 

“ Ay, but that was only to make sure o’ the 
bread for me an’ the’ ould mother at home. To be 
sure it was a great risk for the boy to run, bekase 
he might be cut off any minute, an’ him in that 
state ; but, you see, Nancy a^ra, there was no 
earnin’ to be got, an’ poor Harry couldn’t bear to 
see myself an’ his mother sufferin’ hunger an’ 
starvation, so he gave in to them for a while, until 
sich times as we’d get something from America. 
But he’s overjoyed now, poor fellow, that he can 
20 * 


NEW lights; or, 


iu 

snap his fingers at the Jumpers, an’ pitch their 
soup to the divil whei e it came from, Lord save 
us ! The first thl.ig he said, when he read the let- 
ther and seen the money, was : ‘ Now, thank God, 
I can get into the ouid ark again !’ an’ the first 
thing he did was to take the bundle of thracts he 
had in the house, an’ fling them into the fire. Oh I 
maybe myself an’ Molly didn’t laugh an’ cry with 
joy, an’ it was for which of us would hug Harry 
the first, when we seen the unlucky papers blazin’ 
— an’ if Molly didn’t stir up the fire about them 
it’s a wonder— faix, Nancy dear, she stood watchin’ 
them with the tongs in her hand, till they were all 
in a cindher, an’ then she put down the tongs with 
a clash, an’ said, ‘ The Lord in heaven be praised.’ ” 
“ Why, then, Shane Finegan !” said Nancy, 
wiping away the sympathetic tears which bedewed 
her cheeks ; “ why, then, myself’s well plased to 
hear this news — it used to go to my heart to hear 
Harry Finegan called a Jumper, an’ to think of 
the shame an’ the sorrow that he brought on your 
self an’ Molly — God knows I offered up many’s 
the Father an’ Ave for his cornin’ back agin. Will 
you take a dhrink o’ milk, Shane ? it’s the only 
thing I have to offer you. She lowered her voice, 
“ You know it’s not ould times with us, Shane — 
there’s neither money nor anything else cornin’ in 
now, barrin’ what Phil Maguire an’ a few others 
sends us, an’ even that we can’t call our ov^, for if 


LIFE IN GAL W A.Y:% 


23& 


it was the last bit or sup that was in the house, 
itM go when any one comes makin’ a poor mouth 
to his reverence— an’ och, och, Shane ! but that’s 
often enough, God help the cratures that has to do 
it. I don’t know what in the world I’d do to keep 
the house a-goin’, if it wasn’t for the cow an’ the 
few hens that I manage to keep.” 

“ ’Deed, then,” said Shane, “ you make your 
milk an’ butther, an’ eggs go a long way, for I 
never knew any one to come askin’ the bit an’ sup 
from you, that hadn’t it to get. The Lord be 
praised !” 

“ You may well say that, Shane !” returned 
Nancy ; “ the little that’s in it goes a great way 
among the poor — an’ sure that’s no wondher, when 
we think of the five loaves and three little fishes 
that Our Saviour multiplied till they fed five 
thousand people. Nobody’ll ever go hungry from 
Father O’Driscoll’s door — mind I tell you that^ 
Shane ! for charity’s in his heart, you see, an’ he’ll 
never be left without the manes of showin’ it.” 

Nancy’s allusion to the loaves and fishes struck 
Sir James as something strange, but in the course 
of his after intercourse with the peasantry, he be 
came aware of the fact that they are far from 
being ignorant of the Scripture. 

While Sir James was still reflecting on Nancy’s 
words, he heard Father O’Driscoll’s voice outside, 
accosting Shai.e* 


136 


NEW lights; or, 


“ Why, Shane Fjiiegan, is this you 1 I have not 
seen you for a long time. I suppose Molly told 
you that I called two or three times 

“ Och, musha, then, she did so, your reverence,’' 
said Shane, standing up, “ an’ one o’ the times I 
was in the little room within, but was afeard an’ 
ashamed to come out, on account o’ poor Harry’s 
bad doin’s. But now I can hould up my head, an’ 
show my flice agin, thanks an’ praises be to God — ■ 
the heavy load is taken off my heart, an’ I’m a new 
man altogether.” 

“ Why, Shane, I really believe you are a new 
n an, as you say yourself. What is the cause of 
this sudden change ? Has Harry come to himself 
again 1 Nancy,” he said, in a low tone, “ did you 
give Shane something to eat 

“ Well, no, your reverence, I did not— but I 
gave him something to drink.” 

“Pooh, pooh, Nancy, go and get him a bit to 
eat — he has travelled a good way this morning.” 
Nancy disappeared. 

“ You were asking me about Harry, your rever 
ence,” observed Shane, “an’ what nr.akes me so 
joyful this mornin’. Sure we got a letter from 
Johnny and Susy yesterday, an’ ten pound in it — 
sorra penny less,' your reverence, an’ as soon as 
ever Harry read t\ie letther, by the laws he jumped 
two feet from the flure, and made a dash at the 
thracts, where he had them, up on a shelf, an’ 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


237 


pitched them into th? fire, an’ was as joyful as 
ever you seen any one in all your life.” 

“ Thanks be to God, Shane ! thanks be to God !” 
said Father O’Driscoll,' with pious fervor. “I 
never lost my hopes of Harry, for whenever I 
chanced to meet the poor fellow he always tried 
to avoid me, and I could see that conscience was 
busily at work within him. It was only stern ne- 
cessity that induced him to do what he did. I 
always pitied, more than I blamed him — his crime 
was grievous, but not altogether inexcusable.” 

“ It w^as as good as a play, your reverence,” said 
Shane, “ to see Andrew McGilligan, when he came 
this mornin’ to get Harry to go up to Dan Leary’s 
with him.” 

“ Sit down, Shane,” said the priest, as he took a 
seat opposite, “ and tell me all about it. It must 
have been amusing, for I know Harry has a great 
deal of humour.” 

“ Well, your reverence, we got a stone of meal 
from Barney Flynn till we’d get the draft changed. 
We didn’t like to brake it till your reverence ’id 
see it, an’ we were jist afther our breakfast, when 
there came a long shadow over the flure, and when 
we looked up, bedad there was Andy at the door, 
as large as life, an’ as sour as vinegar. He never 
put the spake on Molly or me any time he came, 
for he had thried it in the beginnin’, and got some 
'libsarved answers that didn’t plase him, but ha 


i38 


NEW lights; or, 


says to Harry, ‘ Are you ready to come with 
me V — ‘ No !’ says Harry, as short as could be — 
‘ I’m not goin’.’ — ‘ Not goin’,’ says Andy, ‘ and 
why not V says he. — ‘ Because I’m not goin’ to act 
tlie hypocrite any more,’ says Harry. With that 
you’d think that McGilligan’s big eyes grew twice 
as big, an’ he looked at Harry as if he’d look him 
through. — ‘ Why, what do you mane, Tinegan V 
says he. — ‘ I mane jist what I said,’ says Harry, 
‘I took my turn out o’ you, an’ got what I wanted, 
an’ I thank you kindly for helpin’ me along through 
the bad times — though to be sure you didn’t do it 
for charity, only bekase you thought you had me 
bought body and soul.’ — ‘ Why,’ says Andy, ‘ sure 
it can’t be that you’re goin’ back to Popery V — ‘ I’m 
not goin’ back,’ says Harry, ‘ for I never left it — 
God forgive me for makin’ fools of so many wise 
riien — but it wasn’t my fault — you might blame 
yourselves. You’re always tryin’ to buy up con- 
sciences, an’ you oughtn’t to complain when you 
find people playin’ sich ugly thricks on you.’ — 

‘ Where’s the tracts V says McGilligan, scarce able 
to spake with anger. — ‘ In the hre there,’ says 
Harry back again, ‘ where they ought to be. We 
made a bone-fire of them.’ — ‘Very well,’ says 
McGilligan, ‘that’ll do. I suppose you’ve got 
some money some way or other,’ says he, ‘ when 
you’re gettin’ so saucy, an’ you may depend we’ll 
pat you through some of it before we quit you. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


239 


We’ll make you pay the tracts, and a trifle 
more, too. You’ll not get off so easy as you think.’ 
With that Harry lifted this stick o’ mine that hap- 
pened to be in the corner beside him, an’ he made 
a flourish as if he was goin’ to sthrike the Bible- 
reader, though he was only playin’ a trick on him, 
bekase he knew what a coward he had to dale 
with. ‘ By this an’ by that,’ says Harry, ‘ if you 
don’t make yourself scarce. I’ll give you the 
weight o’ this.’ He hadn’t to spake twice, for 
before you could snap your finger, there wasn’t a 
color of Andy to be seen, an’ you’d think Harry 
’id jist brake his heart laughin’.” 

“ It was certainly a summary way of getting 
rid of him,” said Father O’Driscoll, with a smile. 
“ But I fear Harry will find these people very 
troublesome — they are not apt to forgive, and can 
do much harm.” 

“ Oh ! as to that, your reverence, Harry doesn’t 
care a fig for them — he’s cornin’ up this evenin’ to 
see you, but he was ashamed to come near you, 
till you’d hear how the matther stood. Don’t bo 
too hard on him, your reverence, for it was love 
for me an’ his mother that made him do what he 
done, always hopin’ that God ’id give him time to 
repent an’ do what was right.” 

Father O’ Driscoll shook his head, but thought 
it unnecessary to continue the subject, so he mere* 


240 


NEW lights; or, 


ly assured Shane that he would receive his son 
kindly, and then passed on into the room, Nancy 
having informed him that ‘ the English gentleman’ 
was there. 

After the usual friendly greeting. Sir James 
referred to the conversation which he had just 
heard, and gave Father O’Driscoll an account, of 
the first part, with the exception of that which 
related to his own affairs. “ There were many 
points of interest in that conversation, simple as 
it was,” said be ; “ points to be remembered and 
dwelt upon in days to come. Leaving apart the 
main subject of the young man’s return to Popery, 
as MoGilligan said, what chiefly struck me was 
your good housekeeper’s introduction of a certain 
passage of Scripture. In England, it is commonly 
believed that Papists, especially the lower orders, 
know nothing whatever of Scripture.” 

“Well, my dear sir!” said the priest, “ I can 
only say that those who think so know nothing of 
us or our people. You will find, if you take the 
trouble of examining for yourself, that even the 
most illiterate Catholics have a certain knowledge 
of the principal events recorded in Scripture, es- 
pecially in the New Testament, and make a better 
application of what they know than very many of 
your Bible-reading people. It is because, instead 
of giving them the Bible to con over, we explain 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


!t for them, and teach them to regulate their lives 
by its precepts. But I must leave you for a mo- 
ment till I see what Nancy has got for dinner — 
if she has anything eatable, you must sta}* ani 
dine with me.” 


ailArTEP. XL 


What war so cruel, or what sie»e so sore, 

As that which strong temptation doth apply 
Against the fort of reason evermore, 

To bring the soul into captivity ? 

Spenser’s Fairy Qiuoh 

To trample on all human feelings, all 
Ties which bind man to man, to emulate 
The fiends, who will one day requite them in 
Variety of torturing. 

Bvron’s Two Foscari. 

A FEtr more weeks passed away, and through 
the kindness of Phil Maguire and his wife, together 
with what Owen could earn — it was very little, for 
there was scarcely any work to be had — poor 
Bernard O’Daly and his children were enabled to 
live. The dull, damp days of October were 
nearly past, when the Ousely carriage rolled ra- 
pidly along the principal street of Killany one 
morning about nine o’clock. Mr. Ousely himself 
was in the carriage wdth his wife and daughter, 
being on his way to the court-house, for it was 
law-day^ and he w'as, of course, a J. P. The ladies 
had some shopping to do in town, and also a few 
visits to pay, amongst others to the lady of the 
officer in con .mail' d of the detachment then st&. 


LIFE IN OALWAr. 


243 


tior.ed in Killany Barracks. As the carriage 
passed through the market-place, theie was a 
crowd of men standing there — gaunt, hungry- look- 
ing creatures, with tattered, or at best thread-bare 
garments, their limbs shivering with the cold, and 
their benumbed fingers scarcely able to hold the 
spades whereon they rested ; they were laborers, 
w'aiting for employment, of which there w'as little 
chance at that advanced hour of the day. As 
Eleanor glanced over the motley crowd, consisting 
of all ages, from the old man, well nigh past his 
labor, to the stripling, who was scarcely fit to un- 
dertake a day’s work, her heart sank within her as 
her eye fell on the handsome face — no longer 
ruddy — :of Owen O’Daly, where he stood a little 
apart from the rest, leaning against the corner of a 
house — one hand thrust into the bosom of his thin 
linen jacket, and the other grasping, as it were 
convulsively, the handle of his^ spade. An old 
cloth cap was drawn down close over his brow, 
and his fine hair hung dishevelled around his tem- 
ples, while his eye-brows were knit almost together, 
and his eyes had a strange, scowling look, that 
made Eleanor start. Alas ! how unlike the 
laughing, light-hearted boy that he had been but 
one short year before. 

“ Oh, mother ! mother !” said Eleanor, in an 
undertone, “ do look there ! — Is it not pitiful to 
see that poor lad, Owen O’Daly, standing there, 


lU 


NEW lights; or, 


ill such a condition ! — my heart aches for him ! — 
It is bad enough to see any of those poor men, 
and to think that they have been waiting there 
since early, early morning — but, oh, mother dear ! 
it is grievous — grievous to see that young O’Daly 
there — he whose prospects were so bright but two 
years ago !” 

To do Mrs. Ousely justice, she was quite as 
much shocked as her daughter, but her husband 
had no pity to throw away on such a subject. 
“ See what a scowling look the fellow has I” said 
he. “ He bids fair to become a regular despera- 
do ! — I should not wonder to hear of him taking 
aim at some one from behind a hedge I” 

“ And little wonder if he did !” thought Eleanor, 
but she wisely refrained from saying so, fearing to 
irritate her father. 

“It’s altogether their own fault,” said Ousely, 
working himself up into a sort of passion. “ If 
they would only do as they ought to do, that d — d 
young scape-grace needn’t be standing there like 
patience on a monument ! They’re getting another 

chance to-day, and by , if they don’t give in, 

out they go, if they were O’Daly a thousand times 
over !” 

Eleanor looked inquiringly at her father, but he 
seemed determined to give no explanation, but 
kept nodding his head, and muttering to himself, 
»nd looking out of the window with a frowning 


LIFE IN Q XLVr AY. 


246 


aspect, as though to deter those within the carriaga 
from any attempt to penetrate his meaning. 

Meanwhile, let us return and see w^hat was going 
on in the now desolate homestead of the O’Daly’s. 
It might be ten o’clock in the forenoon, when An- 
drew McGilligan, and another Scripture reader, 
named Timothy O’Hanlon — (or Hanlon^ as he lat- 
terly styled himself, in holy horror of the old 
Milesian O’) — made their appearance, demanding 
if Bernard O’Daly were at home. Kathleen re- 
plied in the affirmative, and sent Eveleen down to 
the room for her father. The old man started, and 
his pale cheek was flushed for a moment, wffien he 
saw who his visitors were. Still mindful of the 
old hospitality of better times, he first invited the 
men to be seated, and then asked what they want- 
ed with him. 

“ Old man !” began McGilligan, “ we have come 
. again to seek the lost sheep of the house of Israel, 
and to offer you once again the word of salvation, 
the true bread of life ! yea, we are grieved and 
sorrowful to see the misfortunes which have be- 
fallen you, and would rejoice to apply a remedy if 
you would only let us !” 

“ My misfortunes are from God,” returned Ber- 
nard, slowly, “ and the remedy is not in your 
power to give. I’m willin’ to bear whatever 
Ihrials God sees fit to send me.” 

“ It isn’t the will of God that makes you pool 
21 * 


ii8 VEW lights; or, 

and miserable as you are,” said Hanlon, suddenly 
breaking sdence ; “ it’s your obstinate attachment 
to Popery — that’s what does the mischief, and 
your priests put that cant about God’s will in 
your mouth, so that you may deceive yourself and 
others. Come, now, be wise for once in your life, 
and listen to us !” 

Bernard O’Daly stood up, the fire of his young 
days, the fire of his Catholic faith, flashing from 
his eye ; his cheek glowed with a hectic flush, and 
a strength which he had not felt for years gave 
energy to his words and manner : “ Get up an’ go 
your ways !” said he, pointing to the door ; “ you 
say I’m poor an’ miserable, an’ so I am, God 
knows, but this house is still mine, an’ old as I am, 
I’m able for two such leprahawns as you any day, 
so go at once, or I’ll send you out head-foremost !” 

“ Father dear 1” said Kathleen, coming forward 
from where she and her sister Bridget were quilt- 
ing at a frame in the farther end of the kitchen ; 
“Father dear! don’t mind them, let them go 
quietly !” 

“ Oh, surely, miss, surely !” said McGilligan in 
an ironical tone, “ he’d best let us go quietly, as 
you say. But it’s only proper and Christian like 
to let you and him both know that our visit is the 
last chance he’ll ever have, if he now holds out 
against the religion of Christ.” 

“Don't dare to klaspheme in my presence!” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


241 


criid Bernard, sternly; “that’s worse than all. 
You came to insult myself air my children with 
your sham of a religion, when there was death an’ 
black sorrow in the house. I havn’t my brave 
boys now to give you the door, but even so, you’ll 
not brow-beat me with your threatenin’. Get you 
gone, I tell you once for all. Let me alone, chil- 
dren, I’ll do them no harm — I don’t want to do 
them any, bad as they are — all I want is for them 
to leave my house !” 

“ Your house !” cried Hanlon, scornfully ; “ it’s 
as much yours as it’s mine, and maybe far less ! 
Come away, Andrew ! let us leave the old reprobate 
to his fate — e\en as Israel, the adulteress, would 
not hearken to the prophets, nor give up her 
fornication, till the wrath of God came down on 
her in a boiling stream, so shall this hardened 
sinner be burned up with all that is his ! Ah ! we 
shall see it, our eyes shall see his utter ruin, and 
that before many hours are passed !” 

But McGilligan would make another attempt : 
“ Bernard O’Daly !” said he, getting near the door, 
however, as he spoke ; “ Bernard O’Daly ! think 
of your children — behold those comely young 
maidens ; they are poorly and meanly clad ; they 
and you have known hunger and want — will you 
see them starve, as many others have starv<id 1 
oh, be merciful to your own flesh and blood ^ If 
you now reject our offers, we are authorized U say 


248 


NEW lights; or 


that you ar.d yours shall be turned out on the road 
to starve and die !” 

“ Better that than endanger our souls !” said 
Bernard, resolutely ; “ we can get over all that so 
long as we have the thrue faith, an’ if we hadn’t it, 
fill the riches in the world wouldn’t be worth a 
pinch o’ snulf. My children an’ myself are in the 
hands of God, an’ we disregard all you can do ! 
That’s the last word, now — go back with it to 
your employei’s. Tell them that the O’Dalys are 
of the ould stock, or the ould rock, your choice, 
an’ they can die for their faith, as they have lived 
in it, them an’ their fathers before them.” 

“Very well, then,” said Hanlon, “you needn’t 
blame us for what’s to come.” 

“We go,” added McGill igan ; “but we go, 
shaking the dust from off our feet, like the Apos- 
tles of old.” Bernard laughed, and that laugh 
was his last for many a long day. When the 
men were gone, Eveleen crept out from behind a 
large chest where she had been hiding, and her 
eyes were red and swollen, as she went over and 
threw her arms around her father’s neck, and drew 
him down to a seat near the fire. “ Don’t cry, 
father dear,” said the affectionate child, seeing her 
father’s cheek wet with tears, “ don’t cry — I can’t 
bear to see you cryin’.” 

About an hour after the departure of the Scrip- 
ture-readers, while the O’Dalys were still talking 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


249 


ever tho shameless conduct of theproselytizers, all 
of a sudden 

“ There was heard a heavy soui.J, as of arm'd men the tread ” 

On it came, nearer and nearer, until it stopped 
in front of the house ; then there was a clang, as 
of arms grounded, and the girls looked at their 
father in speechless terror. The old man was pale 
as death, and his lips were closely compressed ; he 
tried to stand up, but his trembling limbs refused 
to perform their office, and he sank again into his 
chair, and looked piteously around on the three 
terror-stricken creatures whom he had no longer 
the strength to protect. “ So they’re cornin’ at 
last, children !” he said, in a smothered voice ; 
“ They’re as good as their word, the black-hearted 
villains. May the Lord grant us patience, an’ 
strenth to bear what he’s layin’ on us !” 

“ Oh father ! father dear ! what’s to become of 
you, at all 1” cried the now weeping girls, as they 
wrung their hands in despair, 

“ Shame ! shame, children !” said their father. 
“ Will you fly in the face of God ? — dry up your 
tears, an’ keep quiet now, for the love of God, an 
don’t let them vagabones see you cryin’. Don’t 
give them that satisfaction.” 

By this time Ousely’s bailiff and two of the po- 
licemen were in the kitchen, and having read the 
process of ejectment, commanded Bernard O’Daljr 
vo quit the premises forthwith. 


250 


NEW lights; or, 


“ W ell ! God’s will be done !” ejaculated Ber 
nard. “I’m a long time in it now, an’ so were my 
father an’ my grandfather before me, ah’ it’s little 
any of us thought that the day would come when 
we’d be turned out of it. Be quiet there, chil- 
dren !” he said, with calm dignity. “ Not a word 
with you. Maybe,” said he to the bailiff, who 
was one of the Jumpers, “ maybe you’d allow ua 
to take a couple of quilts an’ a blanket or two.” 

“ No, nor the devil a stitch, old fellow !” re- 
turned the bailiff, who, with the policemen, was 
already gathering the movable furniture together. 
“ Be off as fast as your legs can carry you. Stir 
yourselves, lads !” Kathleen went over to where 
her father’s old overcoat was hanging on the wall, 
and would have taken it down, but Sweeney, the 
bailiff, stopped her with a brutal execration. 
“ Leave it there, and be d d to you !” 

“ Oh ! Mr. Sweeney, dear !” cried the heart- 
'Stricken girl, “ won’t you let me take my father’s 
coat— God help him ! he hasn’t much on him now, 
to keep out the winter’s cold, and it will be the 
death of him to go out such a day as this without 
his overcoat, and God knows where he’ll get a 
shelter !” 

“ I don’t care a damn whether it does or not !’' 
returned the heartless ruffian. “ My orders are to 
seize every thing that can be sold. Out with you 
now, the whole set of you — do you want us tc 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 261 

have the trouble of lifting you out 1 Come here, 
then, Stephens, and you, Tomkins, we’ll give these 
pretty girls a lift, since they don’t choose to use 
their delicate feet !” 

“ For the love of God come away, father !’• 
cried Bridget, taking hold of her father’s arm. 
Kathleen pressed close on the other side, but still 
the old man lingered. lie looked wistfully at the 
old straw chair, wherein Honora used to sit, and 
he was sorely tempted to ask for it, but he knew 
well what the answer would have been, and kept 
in the words which rose from his heart. Still he 
stood a moment with his eyes fixed on that dear 
old chair, and as he gazed, the tears, before pent 
in, came slowly forth, and chased each other down 
his cheek. His daughters well understood his 
feelings, and shared his mournful thoughts, but no 
one spoke, until Sweeney, seeing them linger a 
moment, came behind, and gave Bernard a push 
that sent the grief-worn old man some yards out 
side the door, where he would have fallen, had not 
one of the policemen caught him. At this mo- 
ment, there was heard a loud noise in the rear of 
the house, and the word w^ent round amongst the 
policemen, “ It’s young O’Daly, and there’s a whole 
crowd of ragamuffins with him !” 

“ Stand close to your arms, men !” cried the 
chief constable ; “ we may have work to do !” 

Owen and his friends had gone to the back door, 


262 NEW lights; or, 

seeing from a distance that the front was well 
guarded, but they found the door barricaded against 
them, and then Owen sprang over the gate at the 
end of the house, (charging the others not to follow 
him,) and was making up to his father and sis- 
ters, within the ring, when the chief constable laid 
his hand on his shoulder : 

“ Stand back, young man, stand back ! you can- 
not pass here !” ^ 

“ But my father and my sisters are there — may 1 
not speak to them 

“ Yes ! but not here — let them pass out, men !” 

But just then Kathleen discovered that Eveleeu 
was not with them, and she was just on the point 
of calling to her, w’hen the little girl was seen 
through the open door struggling in the hands of 
Sweeney and the policemen within. 

“ Eveleen !” cried her father — “ Eveleeu ! my 
child ! my child !” 

Owen waited for no more, but dashed through 
the ranks of the policemen, putting aside with his 
hand their bristling bayonets, and before any one 
could prevent him, he caught Eveleen in his arms, 
and w^as already outside the door, when Sweeney 
sailed out “ Stop them there — don’t let them pass, 

say ! The little witch has been picking up things 
in the room. Search her, captain !” 

“ Stand back !” cried Owen, in a voice that 
startled all within hearing ; “ stand back there. 


L I F K IX GALWAY. 


251 


captain, or w?iaiever you are. Don’t dare to lay 
a fingei on the child, or — will you dare ?” he 
shouted, raising: the screaminq; child with one arm, 
while with the other he grasped at the officer’s 
throat. “ Back now, and let us pass, or I’ll chok(5 
you — aye ! if there was fifty of your bayonets 
, about me. Ha ! ha !” he laughed, or rather 
shrieked, as the amazed chief made a sign for his 
men to make way. “ Ha ! ha ! you’re a wise man, 
I see ! — you know it’s not safe to play with a mad- 
man — he doesn’t regard bayonets ! Come on 
now, father ! — They’ll not ask to stop us !” — he 
added bitterly, as the stupefied old man followed 
close behind, almost carried by his two elder 
daughters. By this time, the men from behind 
the house had got around to the front, and a for- 
midable aspect they did present, for they were all 
armed with spades. On seeing the miserable 
group of which poor Bernard was the centre, with 
Eveleen clinging to his arm, the men became al- 
most frantic with fury. 

“Ah, then, Owen,” said one stout, burly fellow', 
no other than Patsey, our old acquaintance ; “ Ah, 
then, Owen, how can you stan’ that ? By the laws, 
Tin willin’ to lose the last dhrop o’ my blood — an* 
begorra I will, too, if it’s a wantin’. Boys !” said 
he, addressing his companions : “ is it come to that 
with us. that we’d stan’ by an’ see Barney O’Daly 
22 


264 


NEW lights; ou 


an’ his family turned out on the world on a cowld 
winther’s day 

“Faith an’ it’s not, then,” cried Brian Han- 
ratty, making a flourish with his formidable 
weapon. 

“ Let us give it to them now, once for all,” cried 
one ; and another shouted, 

“ Many a good turn we owe them.” 

“ Look at that divil’s bird, Sweeney, the Jump- 
er !” cried a third ; and so great became the up- 
roar of angry voices, that neither Bernard nor his 
daughters could make themselves heard. The 
policemen began to put themselves on the defen- 
sive, and as the crowd of angry assailants was 
every moment increasing, the aflair was becoming 
serious. For some minutes there was nothing 
heard save the deep voice of the police officer, as 
he formed his men into a square, and the fierce 
threatenings of the surrounding crowd, now 
swelled into a multitude. In vain did Owen 
O’Daly try to joersuade his father and sisters to 
retire to some of the neighboring houses. 

“ No, no, Owen !” said his father, “ we’ll not stir 
a step till you’re with us. If w’e went, God only 
knows what might happen. But come you with 
us, acmJda ! an’ we’ll go any where — any w^hero 
out o’ this !” 

Here there was an interruption, owing to tha 
aiTival of Mr. Ousely, who rode up at full speed, 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


255 


ftnd dashed in amongst the crowd, amid a vclley of 
feiirful execrations. 

“There he goes, the tyrant! — -make way for him 
there, or he’ll tramp us all down — an’ that same 
’id be bread an’ butther to him — ah 1 you hard- 
hearted villain ! your own hearth-stone ’ill be as 
cowld as Bernard O’Daly’s some o’ these days, an’ 
there ’ill be no one sorry for you, Ousely ! when 
your time comes 1” 

Ousely made no answer, but kept turning from 
side to side with a scowl of fierce defiance. Having 
spoken a few words with the police officers, he 
commanded the people to disperse, or otherwise 
he would read the riot act, and order the police to 
do their duty. 

“ No, nor the sorra foot we’ll stir out o’ this !” 
cried one and another. “ Come on, boys, as we 
couldn’t get any work this mornin’, we’ll give a 
hand here !” 

Bernard laid his hand on Owen’s shoulder, and 
begged him, for God’s sake, and his sake, not to 
raise a hand against any one. 

“ What good can you do us, Owen dear 1 you 
can’t put us into the house again, for it’s not ours 
any longer, an’ you’ll only be the cause of blood- 
fclied, an’ maybe loss of life. Go, Owen dear ! for 
I’m not able, an’ persuade the poor fellows to 
scatter peaceably afore the Act is read. Ho, 
Vistorc niachree ! an’ you’ll have your father’s 


NEW lights; or, 


blessiii’ — if tliere was a life lost on my account, it 
would break my heart — it would indeed! — go !— 
go ! — or you’ll be too late !” 

The fiery youth could ill brook such a mission, 
but he had never disobeyed his father, and would 
not begin now, when his heart was crushed beneath 
a double load of sorrow. Going over to the most 
violent of the men, he begged of them to desist, 
telling them what his father had said. There is no 
knowing what effect the message might have had, 
but just then there was a cry of “ The priest ! the 
priest 1” and a ready passage was opened for him 
as he rode up, followed by Phil Maguire on his 
white pony. 

“Where are they?” said Father O’Driscoll, 
after exchanging a cold salute with Ousely ; 
“ where are Bernard and the children ?” 

“ Here they are, your reverence !” said a score of 
voices ; “ here’s poor Bernard sittin’ on the cowld 
stones.” 

“ Yis, here we are, Father O’Driscoll 1” said 
Bernard, his tears breaking forth anew. “ Here’s 
myself an’ the girls, an’ poor Owen, without a roof 
to cover us, blessed be God for it — it’s his will, or 
it wouldn’t happen to us.” 

“ May the Lord comfort you !” said Father 
O’Driscoll, as he alighted from his horse, and 
squeeze 1 the old man’s hand. “ But don’t despair, 


LIFE IN C ALWAT. 


26T 


Bernard ! God’s arm is not shortened, and He sees 
what is going on !” 

“ Will you get out o’ the w'ay, an’ bad manners 
to you ?” cried Phil Maguire from behind. “ Beg- 
gin’ your pardon, Father O’Driscoll ! I didn’t 
mane you !” 

“ Hurra, boys ! clear the way for Phil Maguire 
— himself and Bernard’s old friends. God bless 
you, Phil ! every day you rise !” 

“ Thank you, boys, thank you kindly !” He had 
now made his way up to Bernard, and taking hold 
of his hand, he shook it as though he would shake 
it off him, and looked him straight in the face, but 
said nothing. When he came to the girls, he did 
the same, and when they w^ere breaking out into 
ejaculations of sorrow, he stopped them short 
with “ Never mind, girls, never mind ! all’s not 
lost that’s in danger ! Here, Owen, stay with 
them — I’ve a word to spake to Misther Ousely 
there !” 

By this time the priest had laid his commands 
on the people to disperse quietly, but every one 
was anxious to hear what honest Phil had to say 
to the landlord, and there was a dead silence. 

“ Misther Ousely !” said Phil, touching his hat 
according to custom; “Misther Ousely! a word’ 
with you, sir ! Wouldn’t you take my note for 
w'hat arrears is on the O’Daly farm — it’s only six^ 
ty five pound, an’ you know I’m good for more 
- 22 * 


258 


NEW lights; or, 


than that ! I never gave a note before to any one, 
but I’m willin’ to do that an’ more, sooner than 
see Bernard O’Daly put out of his place !” 

“ I’ll have nothing to do with your note,” said 
Ousely, in his surliest tone. “ If you’ll hand out 
the money, I’ll let them stay — not otherwise !” , 

“Because you know well enough,” said Phil, 

“ that if I had the ready money, I wouldn’t offer 
you a note. But no matter for that — take the 
note — ” and he held it out to him — “ I’ll forgive ' 
you all, if you’ll only do this ! Do, for God’s 
sake, Misther Ousely !” 

“ Not for any sake !” said Ousely, fiercely ; 

“ O’Daly has brought it all on himself, and the law 
shall take its course. As for you, Maguire, you 
had a different tune some weeks ago, when I sent / 
for you — do you remember that ?” 

“ I do,” returned Phil stoutly, “ an’ I thank God 
I’m jist as unbehouldin’ to you now as I was then. 
God pity them that is in your power this blessed 
day. Boys !” said he, turning abruptly to the 
listening crowd ; “ boys. I’d have you all to know 
that if poor Bernard O’Daly is sittin’ there with his 
children, without a roof to cover them, it’s because 
neither he nor his ’id have anything to do with the 
J umpers. It’s because he wouldn’t turn his back 
on his religion, an’ make a god of the soup-boiicr 
or the stirabout-pot. That’s the thrue raison ol 
his bein’ turned out — it’s not the rent, at all.” 


LIF E IN G ALWAYc 


259 


A yell of execration followed, and the excite- 
ment became so great, that Ousel y was glad to 
dismount and tak^^ shelter in the house. The police 
themselves were evidently alarmed, and diew 
close together with bayonets pointed, waiting for 
the attack ; they had not room to take aim, being 
closely hemmed in by the laborers, with their 
fearful looking weapons raised aloft, ready to 
wreak vengeance on those who had been so often 
the instruments of tyrannical oppression. Kath- 
leen and Bridget O’Daly covered their eyes with 
their hands, and begged of their father and Owen 
to leave that terrible scene, but no one listened to 
them, nor to Eveleen, though she kept screaming 
and clapping her hands. Already were the spades 
uplifted for a crushing blow, and the pale faces and 
compressed lips of the policemen, as they grasped 
their bayonets, showed them prepared for a mor- 
tal struggle. Not a word was spoken on either 
side, for the passions of all had settled down into 
the fearful calm of desperation, and it seemed that 
no earthly power could restrain the tide of de- 
struction, but suddenly the voice of Father 
O’Driscoll was heard : “ I command you to fall 
back,” said he, “ and to shed no blood ! In the 
name of God, do what I bid you !” There was 
heard a low murmur, like the subterraneous growl- 
ing of pent-up elements, and then the crowd fell 
back, and the spades were lowered, and the 


260 


NEW lights; or, 


policemen began to breathe more freely, and even 
Ousely put his head out of the door-way. At his 
appearance, the storm was well-nigh raised again ; 
there was a cry of “ Don’t let Ousely escape I 
Now’s the time to pay him for all !” 

“ Silence !” cried Father O’Driscoll, “ Silence ! — 
not a word more, I charge you ! If the man has 
done wrong, leave him to God — he is the Aven- 
ger — not you ! — The first thing we have to do is to 
seek a shelter for this afflicted family.” 

“ ’Deed, an’ that won’t take you long. Father 
O’Driscoll,” said Phil Maguire, briskly. “ They’ll 
not want a shelter while I have one to give them. 
There’s room enough for them in my place above, 
an’ they’re as welcome as the flowers in May !” 

“ The Lord bless you, Phil !” said Bernard, fer- 
vently. “ It’s you that’s always the thrue friend.” 

“ Yes, Bernard !” said the priest, “ the friend in 
need is the friend indeed ! May God bless you, 
Phil !” It was all he could say, but the warm 
grasp of his hand did Phil’s heart good, for it as- 
sured him of his fullest approbation. 

“Come, now,” says Phil, beginning to bustle 
about in ks old way, “ what wfill we do for a cart, 
to take Bernard an’ the girls up — for I know they’re 
not able to walk ?” 

“ Hurra !’' shouted those who were on the out 
skirts of the crowed; “hurra! hurra! for granny 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


261 


Mulligan ! Long life to you, granny ! It’s you 
that’s always to be had when you’re a wantin’.” 

“Clear the way^there !” cried others. “Here’s 
granny Mulligan herself, with a cart — more power 
to your elbo 5V, granny ! — that’s it, granny !” 

Sure enough, it w^as granny Mulligan herself, 
who now drove up, standing in Phil Maguire’s cart, 
and managing the reins with as much vigor as 
though she were but “ sweet five-and-twenty,” as 
she said herself. ' 

Heedless of the warm gratulations of the nu- 
merous by-standers, granny drove right up to the 
O’Dalys, and there stopped. Not a word could 
she speak for a full minute, during which time she 
cleared her throat more than once, but at last she 
found voice to speak : 

“ So they put you out,” said she ; “ out of the 
ould walls where your forebearers lived in pace 
an’ plenty — an’ it’s all for religion — religion, 
imgli /” she repeated, wdth ineffable scorn — “ sure, 
isn’t the three kno\Yn by its fruit, an is’nt sich a 
sight as this enough to shew what their religion 
is — the curse o’ God villains — a decent body ought 
to wipe their mouth afore they’d mention them or 
their sham religion ! — ah ! you’re in there, Ouse- 
ly !” — she just then caught a glimpse of him 
through the window — “ an’ there’s your right-hand 
man, Alick Sweeney — the white-livered dog ! — ah ! 
there’ll come a day for all this — mind my words 


262 


NEW lights: or 


out there will !” and the excited old wcLirn Bh<X)k 
her fist at the squire, from her elevated position, 
to the great amusement of the spectators, police- 
men and all. 

“ Blood alive, granny ! how did you know we 
wanted the cart 1” cried Phil — “ or was there no 
one else to come with it 

“ The sorra that there was, Phil,” returned 
f^ranny — “ an’ bedad, myself and Nanny thought I 
bad best get in an’ dhrive myself, so atween us 
we tackled the horse, and off I set, an’ it’s well I 
did, too. Get in here, girls — ah, then, Eveleen, 
my poor, fair-haired colleen — is it come to this 
with you % Bernard ! poor man ! get in here — 
Owen or Phil will dhrive back, an’ I’ll walk !” 
So saying, she motioned to Owen to help her to « 
alight, but Phil interposed, and made her stay 
where she was. 

“No, no, granny ! stay where you are — we’ll 
walk beside the cart !” 

“ Well, make haste, then, all o’ you, for Nanny 
has a fine dinner ready, an’ it’ll be spoiled if you 
don’t hurry.” 

Father O’Driscoll now came forward with a 
smiling countenance, and extended his hand to 
granny : 

“ So you tackled the horse and drove down 
yourself, granny T said he. “ You really deserve 
credit. I did not think you had been so active !” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


263 


Is it me, your reverence ! — oh, then, indeed, I 
could do more nor that if I was put upon. The 
like o’ this makes an ould body young again ! — ah ! 
you villain !” she cried, shaking her fist again at 
Ousely, who just then appeared at the door — 
“ you hard-hearted villain ! it’ll come down on you 
hot an’ heavy, so it will !” 

“ My good woman !” interposed the chief of 
police ; “ I cannot allow you to talk so to Mr. 
Ousely ! — I’m here to keep the peace.” 

“ You keep the pace !” cried Brian Hanratty, 
who stood near him. “ Is it you keep the pace ? — - 
why, bad manners to you for a spalpeen, wasn’t it 
Father O’Driscoll that kept the pace^ — if he wasn’t 
here. I’d like to know where you^d be by this time ! 

* Three cheers, boys, for his reverence.” In an 
instant every caubeen was in motion, and cheer 
after cheer rang out through the grey misty sky, 
awaking the echoes of the neighboring mountains. 
It was a cheer that Connemara well knew, for there 
is none other that comes so directly from the heart 
in that wild and remote region, as that which re- 
sponds to the word soggarth P 

“ And now a groan for Ousely an’ the Jump- 
ers !” 

“ An’ a groan for the lyin’ Prodestan’ bishop,” 
cried another — “ him that said there was ten thou- 
eand Jumpers in Connemara! Faix, if we had 


264 


NEW lights; or, 


him here, we’d |:ut the lie down his throat, an’ a 
bouncer of a lie it is, too !” 

The groan that followed was more than a groan — 
it was a yell of fierce defiance, and it was renewed 
again and again until the small party of policemen 
began to quake once more. But they had no need, 
for their guardian angel was still present in tho 
person of Father O’Driscoll. 

In a few minutes after, the procession moved 
away, and a tumultuous one it was, too, for every 
man there seemed to have made up his mind to • 
accompany the cart, by way of forming a guard 
of honor. It was a strange sight — a truly Irish 
sight — to see that grey-haired old man, with his 
three daughters and his young son, turned out of 
the house where they had all drawn their first 
breath, and their fathers before them for genera- ^ 
tions back — the house which had been improved 
and made comfortable by their ceaseless industry t 
to-see them turned adrift on the wide world with- 
out a penny in their pockets, just at the opening of 
winter. And then to see the numerous escort, all 
vieing with each other in paying attention to the 
poor homeless family — all eager to do them any 
little office of kindness which their own poverty 
would permit then; to offer — the rough man of 
labor, softened to woman’s tenderness, and for- 
geting his own half-starved condition in his keen 
sympathy for the O’Dai ys — for them wlio had 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


26 ft 


often relieved him in bv-crone years. The whole 
scene was one of 'leanr-rwiamg interest. 

Father O’Driscoll rode beside the cai't, alter^ 
nately consoling Bernard, and soothing Owen’a 
exasperated mind. At I'lnl’s request, he accom- 
panied them to his nuuse, and partook of Nanny’s 
“ fine dinner.” When they reached the foot of the 
lane, the crowd separated, having first given three 
cheers for Phil Maguire, and three more for 
Bernard O’Daly ; then again for Father O’Driscoll, 
who gave them his blessing at parting, and warmly 
thanked them for their prompt and cheerful 
obedience. “ Long life to you. Father O’Driscoll ! 
it ’id be a bad day for us if we didn’t obey you !” 
said one ; “ I hope that day ’ill never come !” 
said another, as they turned away, each taking the 
road to his own desolate cabin. 

Owen was moody and silent all the evening, 
notwithstanding the persevering efforts of his 
friends to divert him from his gloomy thoughts. 

“ But tell me, Eveleen dear !” said Kathleen, 
suddenly, “ what was it that kept you after us 1” 

“ Why, sftire I wanted to get something that 
had belonged to poor mother. And when I heard 
the ugly, wicked man saying that you mustn’t take 
anything, I thought I’d steal into the room, and — ” 
“ And what did you get, dear f ’ said her father. 
The little girl put her hand in her pocket, with 
out speaking, and pulled out a pair of larg«, 

3] 


2G6 


NEW lights; or, 


old-fashioned beads, which were at once recognized 
as having been her mother’s. This sight drew 
tears from all present- -even Father O’Driscoll’s 
eyes were moist. 

“An’ so,” said Bernard, “it was to make sure 
of the beads that you staid behind, Eveleen 

“ I wanted to get mother’s specs, too. Father,” 
said Eveleen, quietly ; “ but the men came on me 
before I could find them, an’ they wanted right or 
wrong to see what I had in my pocket, before 
they’d let me go. That’s what made me cry out 
the way I did, for I was afraid that they’d take 
me beads from me.” 

•• Poor child !” said Father O’Driscoll with a 
melancholy smile, “ you might not have been 
xrraid of that — they do not covet such things, un- 
j ^ss lo throw them in the fire, or some such thing.” 

Granny Mulligan was installed in the chimney 
o wner for that evening, and if she had been a 
queen, she could not have been treated with greater 
respect. She was in all respects the queen of the 
feast, and a gay old queen she was. 


1 IF E IN GALWAY , 


267 


CHAPTER XII. 


I mean to show things as they really are, 

Not as they ought to be, for I avow 
That till we see what’s what iu fact, we’re far 
From much improvement. — Byron’s Don Juan. 

When we last saw Eleanor Ousely, she was go- 
ing with her mother, to call on Mrs. Hampton, the 
wife of Captain Hampton of the 27th. Mrsj. 
Hampton was an Englishwoman of limited educa- 
tion, and full of strong prejudice against “ Ireland 
and the Irish.” Still, this was more the effect of 
an erroneous system of training, than of any 
natural antipathy to the Irish or any other people, 
for, on the whole, Mrs. Hampton was a good-nar 
tured, well-meaning woman, ready and willing ‘ to 
do a good turn whenever it was required. When 
Mrs. Ousely and her daughter had set down Mr. 
Ousely at the court-house, they drove to Mrs. 
Hampton’s, and were shown into the drawing-room, 
where they found Capt. Hampton, with one of his 
subordinates, a foppish-looking young gentleman, 
who was introduced as Lieutenant Gray. Mrs. 
Hampton insisted that the carriage should be dri- 
ven into the yard, “ for,” said she, “ you must wait 
for our luncheon — it is a iong time since you 


2.68 


NEW lights; or, 


spent an hour with me, so now you shall spend 
two^ at least” 

“ But Mr. Ousely may be waiting for us,” said 
Mrs. Ousely, in her quiet way. 

“Well! let him wait I” returned Mrs. Hamp- 
ton, quickly. “ Surely you’re not afraid of him — 
it is only the Papists who hold him in awe, I 
fancy !” 

“ Caroline ’” said her husband, in a signifieant 
tone, and then he gently turned the conversation 
into another channel. In this he was assisted by 
Eleanor, who well knew that Mrs. Hampton was 
sometimes “ more candid than polite.” 

“ How do you like Connemara, Captain Hamp- 
ton ?” said Eleanor ; “ it is a very wild region — is 
it not?” 

“For what I have seen of it. Miss Ousely,” 
replied the Captain, “ I like it very well. Some- 
what different, indeed, from what I had expected 
to find it, but that is nothing strange, for I might 
say the same of almost every place where I have 
been, in Ireland. It is surprising how little we 
English know at home of the actual condition of 
Ireland, or even of its scenery. It is a very 
beautiful country !’^ 

“ Beautiful, indeed 1” said Mrs. Hampton, con- 
temptuously ; “ I should like to kno w what you 
call beautiful 1” 

“ Well, my dear !” said the captain with a smile. 


LIFE IN GILWAY. 


263 


“ better judges than either you or I have long ago 
given that decision, and I believe it passes current 
every where. What a pity, Miss Ousely ! that 
such a country should be inhabited by a race of 
paupers ! The poverty of Ireland is so great, so 
lasting, and so general, that one is almost tempted 
to think that a curse hangs over this fair and fertile 
land !”- 

“And so there is, Frederick!” said his wife, 
earnestly ; “ the whole world knows that there is 
a curse on Ireland — the heavy curse of Popery.” 

Eleanor and Hampton exchanged a meaning 
glance, and even Mrs. Ousely smiled. “That 
naughty Popery has much to answer for, my dear 
Mrs. Hampton !” said Eleanor, “ if it be the cause 
of all the misery which exists and has for ages 
existed, in Ireland. But surely,” she added with 
an arch smile, “ surely, we may hope for a speedy 
improvement — Popery, you know, will soon be 
banished from Ireland, and then all will go on well 
— we shall have the millennium, as a matter of 
course.” 

“ Yes, but who’s going to banish Popery ?” 
observed Mrs. Hampton, who did not well under- 
stand irony, and, therefore, took Eleanor’s words 
in their literal signification. “ I’m quite sure that 
the missions here are not making much real 
progress, though they make a great fuss about 
what they do !” 


270 


NEW lights; or, 


“ Why, you forget, my dear Caroline,” said her 
husband, gravely, “ that his grace of Tuam — 1 
mean our own dignitary — ^has publicly boasted of 
having ten thousand convfeits in his, arch-diocese. 
Recollect yourself, my deaf !” 

“Well! of course he knows best,” said Mrs. 
Hampton, “but if any one else said it, I should 
certainly set it down as a wholesale mistake, or 
something else. But, of course, archbishops never 
lie. I only hope that the converts are of a more 
reputable character in other pHces than they are 
here.” 

“ As to that,” said the Captain, “ I suppose — 
nay, I believe they are pretty much the same all 
through.” 

“For my part,” said the sub, in a soft, lisping 
tone, “ I never trouble myself much about such 
things, but I must say it is rather hard that we 
'should' be obliged to escort these wretched converts 
to church, as is the case in many places. I have 
been several times obliged to do it, and really I 
did feel exceedingly small on those occasions 1” 

“ And the worst of it is,” said Hampton, with 
his soldierly frankness, “ that the precious converts 
might have gone to church, in every one of those 
instances, without our company. They merely 
represented themselves as being in danger, in order 
to make themselves of some importance. In fact, 
our being with them often d :ew ridicule and insult 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


21 


upon them, that I am confident they wouh. 
otherwise have escaped.” 

“ Yes !” said Gray, “ I remember, one wet Sun 
day, when we were stationed in some out-ofithe-way 
place down near Achill, we had to guard a iiaH 
dozen or so of these stirabout converts to church, 
and, ’pon honor, I got my best over-coat co^upletely 
spoiled — I positively did.” 

“ Why, how did that happen, Mr. Gray de- 
manded Eleanor, trying to keep fr^/m laughing. 
“ Were you mistaken for a convert?” 

“ No, Miss Ousely,” lisped the Lieutenant, with 
an air of offended pride ; “ no, not quite so bad as 
that, but the people began to quiz the confounded 
converts about having a guard of honor, as they 
called it, and the others answered back, doubtless 
depending on our protection, whereupon there was 
some mud thrown at ihem^ but unluckily I got part 
of it. I really could have seen the converts far 
enough at the time — in fact, any where but where 
they were.” 

“ But why blame the converts, Mr. Gray ? — 
surely it was not their fault?” 

“ Why, not exactly — though it was, indirectly at 
least — but the fellows who threw the mud were so 
sorry, and made so many apologies for hitting me, 
that I could not bring myself to be angry with 
them, poor devils — I must say I respected thein 
mere chan I did the converts — so-called.” 


272 


NEW lights; CR,- 


“Well, really,” said Mrs. llanpton, “though I 
should be glad to see Popery abolished, yet some- 
how it don’t seem as if there’s any great chance of 
its being so in our time, and I must say that these 
ten thousand converts — dear me ! I hope the arch- 
bishop didn’t make a mistake — are not worth all 
they cost — what with the soup and stirabout, and 
never-ending collections taken up for them, and 
the guarding them to church, and I don’t know 
what all.” 

“ What with one thing and another, Caroline,” 
interrupted her husband, “ we might say to them, 
collectively, as Cora said to her child : ‘ Thou art 
dear bought !’ Poor Gray is ready to endorse that 
opinion. But what about the lunch, Carry — 1 
thought you promised us some ?” 

“ And so 1 did, Frederick — and I was really 
forgetting all about it !” She then rang the bell, 
and ordered luncheon to be served in the brealv- 
fast-parlor, whereupon the captain offered his arm 
to Mrs. Ousely, and the lieutenant was so eager to 
secure Eleanor for the journey down stairs, that 
he came near stumbling over an ottoman which 
lay between them. 

About noon, the carriage was ordered round, 
and the ladies proceeded to pay their remaining 
vi dts, having obtained a promise from the Hamp- 
tons and Lieutenant Gray to dine at the Hall on 
the following day. On reaching home, Mrs Ousely 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


313 


asked John, who opened the door, whether hia 
master had got back yet. 

“ Why, Lord bless you ! no, ma’am !” replied 
John — “sure he’s down at Bernard O’Daly ’s.” 

“ At Bernard O’Daly’s !” repeated both ladies 
in surprise ; “ what in the wmrld is he doing there 

“ So you didn’t hear what happened then ? 
Sure the O’Dalys are ejected — turned out root 
and branch — and there was near bein’ bad work 
there — only for the priest, they tell me, the mas- 
thcr, and the police, and all would have got some- 
thing to remember while they live — and maybe it’s 
Icilt they ’d have been all out, for sure all the la- 
borers ran out from the town with young O’Daly, 
when w'ord w^as brought to him of what was goin’ 
on ; and besides, the people gathered from far and 
near Avhen the wmrd went out, and they say there 
wasn’t sich a gatherin’ seen this many a day.” 

Both mother and daughter stood aghast on hear- 
ing this, and for a moment neither could speak. 

“ But are the O’Dalys left without a roof to 
cover them 1” said Eleanor at length. 

“ Hut, tut. Miss Eleanor ! don’t you know very 
well,” said John, “ that the likes o’ them wouldn’t 
be long on the road — no thanks to them that took 
the shelter from them ! — why they weren’t many 
minutes out o’ the house, w^hen Phil Maguire war 
there — and they tell me he offered to pay tho 
whole arrears, but his note vrouldn’t be taken — 


NEW lights; or, 


lU 

and didn’t granny Mulligan — the owld beggar, 
woman — drive down Phil Maguire’s cart, and they 
were all taken up there. Oh, by the laws, Miss 
Eleanor, the counthry would be gone to the dogs 
altogether, if they ’d be left without on the road— 
though many a dacent ould family w, God knows ! 
Howandever, you may thank Eather O’Driscoll, 
or there’d be black sorrow for miles round this 
blessed day, and — well ! no matter ! — it’s best as 
it is — and thank God that you haven’t got the sore 
heart, let who will have it !” 

It w^as late in the evening when Ousely came 
home, and even then his manner was still flurried, 
and his face paler than usual, from the effects of 
the recent agitation. During dinner he spoke little, 
and what he did say was cold and stern, without 
any allusion to what had passed. He asked where 
the ladies had been, and they answered in few 
words. On the whole, the meal was an^^ thing but 
pleasant, for there was a gloom hanging over all, 
and the very viards on the table seemed to have 
lost their usual flavor. At an early hour — much 
earlier than usual, Eleanor retired, and the others 
soon after followed her example. 

On the following day, Ousely seemed to have 
recovered his usual spirits, and undertook to give 
an account of the proceedings of the previous day 
Eleanor and her mother listened with apparent 
ooraposure, and made little or no comment, ]\frs. 


IIFE IN GALWAY. 


2t5 


Ousely never daring to, find fault with her hiis* 
band’s conduct, and Eleanor well knowing that 
there was no good then to be effected by her inter- 
ference. She was sick at heart, and felt as though 
she would have given worlds to be anywhere but 
where sne was. The almost daily recurrence of 
these scenes was a source of unmitigated torture 
to her sensitive mind, and each tragedy, as it oc- 
curred, seemed to weaken her affection for her 
father, who was the author and executor of 
them all. 

Her tenderest sympathies were with the poor, 
suffering people, who were made to endure such 
unheard of miseries, and who bore them with such 
unprecedented patience and resignation. Their 
sufferings, and their virtues, and their humble piety 
were constantly in her mind, and these, coupled 
with her acquired knowledge of the Catholic reli- 
gion, and her conviction of its divine origin, gra- 
dually brought her mind to a fixed and steady 
resolution to cross the Rubicon, and take refuge in 
the land of peace. But for the present she kept 
her decision to herself, awaiting a more favorable 
opportunity to disclose it, even to her mother. 

In the course of the day, Mr. Ousely told his 
wife that he was going to give O’Daly’s place to 
Alick Sweeny. “ The fellow deserves something,” 
said ne, “for he has don 3 me good service, and 


21G 


NEW lights; ok, 


besides he’s a convert, and I want to encourage 
him. It will incite others to follow his example.” 

“Well, my dear, you know best!” was the 
meek rejoinder of Mrs. Ousely, but not so Elea- 
nor. 

“ My dear father 1” said she, “ you cannot but 
know that there is not in the whole country a more 
disreputable person than that Sweeny. Why, his 
name was a by-word long before his conversion — 
if conversion you choose to call it, and we have 
not heard that he is anything improved of late. 
Surely you will not think of giving him that fine 
farm and farm-house, on which the O’Dalys have 
expended so much money. Just think of how it 
will look, father — think of the man’s character 1” 

“ Why, what the d — 1, Eleanor ! can’t a man do 
what he likes with his own, without being called to 
an account for it ? I tell you that Sweeny shall 
have the place, so there’s no use in talking any 
more about it. If that obstinate old fool, O’Daly, 
hadn’t been so stiff, he might have been in it still. 
It w'as only yesterday morning that I sent to offer 
him terms, but he wouldn’t hear a word the men 
had to say !” 

“ And who were the men^ father 1” usked Eleanor 
in a careless tone. 

“ Why, Hanlon and McGilligan — who else 

Eleanor smiled, but saicl no more. She had 
beard all she wanted to hear, and she thought it 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


21 1 

best to take another opportunity of reasoning with 
her father on the disgraceful project of putting the 
despicable Sweeny in the ancient holding of the 
O’Dalys. She and her mother persuaded Mr. 
Ousely to ride over to Clareview early in the 
morning, and engage the Dixon family for dinner. 

By Jove I will !” said Ousely, “ and we’ll have 

capital fun, for I know Hampton is a d d good 

fellow, and so is Dixon, though he does keep com- 
pany with the priest ; and then that young 
Trelawney is a devilish fine fellow, though not the 
best hand in the world ‘ to push about the jorum’ 

— O’Hagarty must come, too, by , for, like old 

King Cole, he’s a merry old soul, and a merry old 
soul is he ! Hillo, Ben ! bring out Tom Turpin 
(his favorite roadster). I’ll be off at once !” 

In due time for dinner came Captain and Mrs. 
Hampton and Lieutenant Gray, Sir James Trelaw- 
ney, Mr. and Miss Dixon, but, to the great disap- 
pointment of Mr. Ousely, the Reverend Bernard 
did not make his appearance, though dinner w'as 
kept back a full half hour. 

“ For whom are you waiting, Ousely 1” said 
Mr. Dixon, seeing that his host kept watching the 
door. 

“ For the Reverend Mr. O’Hagarty I” returned 
Ousely. “ He promised to come without fail.” 

“Humph!” said Mr. Dixon, “I rather thirk 
you needn’t wait any longer. Eh, Sir James 1” 


Jta NEW lights; or, 

Trelawney shook his head and smiled. 

Hampton laughed. “ Why, really, Mr. Dixon I” 
said he, “ I think ‘ more is meant than meets the 
ear’ in your remark ” 

“ ’Pon my honor I think so too,” said Gray. 

Dixon kept looking from one to the other with 
a provoking smile. At last he turned to his 
daughter, who had been telling Eleanor something 
in a low voice, that made the latter burst out 
laughing. 

Shall I tell, Amelia 1” 

“ Just as you please, father. I have been making 
Eleanor as wise as myself.” 

“ Why, hang it, Dixon, let us hear it, whatever 
it is !” cried Ousely, with a gesture of impatience. 

“ Take your time, Ousely,” rejoined the other, 
“ ill news comes soon enough, and I think you will 
all agree that this is bad news. As we came by 
Alick Sweeny’s on our way hither, our ears were 
assailed by some unusual sounds, and lookmg in, 
we perceived the Reverend Bernard, minus his 
coat, his stolid countenance flaming red, and Alick 
Sweeny belaboring him, might and main, with a 
stout shillelagh. His reverence was evidently the 
worse for liquor, in other words, gloriously drunk, 
and if he didn’t bawl, and jump, and cut capers 
through the floor, no man ever did. And the fun 
of it was, that Sweeny, the rascal ! was just as 
cool as a cucumber, and kept saying at every 


LIFE IN Q ALWAT. 2’79 

blow : ‘ There’s for you, now ! take that now * will 
you do it again, you beast with sundry other 
compliments of a like character.*' 

Every one present laughed aloud, except Ousely, 
who seemed far more inclined to cry, and the sight 
of his doleful countenance made the others laugh 
still more. 

“ Why, d — n the villain — I mean that Sweeny !” 
said he, after a short pause — “ what did he do that 
for 

“For a very good reason,” replied Dixon, 
coolly ; “ because the fellow had been making love 
to his wife in his absence, and went about it so 
roughly that the gentle dame complained to her 
husband, who returned thanks for his attention in 
the way I have described.” 

“Still. the scoundrel had no business to go so 
far !” cried Ousely. “ His wife isn’t always so 
squeamish, and he knows that well enough. I’ll 
be hanged if I’m not even with him for that — he 
may go whistle for a farm now.” 

Here dinner was announced, and the gentlemen 
prcceeded to “ take the ladies ” in the order point- 
ed out by Mrs. Ousely. Sir James anticipated 
the word of command, by drawing Eleanor’s arm 
through his own, whereupon the Lieutenant made 
up to Amelia with his best bow. As they went 
down stairs, Eleanor said to Trelawney : — “ I wish 
you had been at Captain Hampton’s yesterday 


ISO 


NEW lights; or, 


when we were there. I was very much aniuseJ 
by certain reminiscences of the captain and lieu- 
tenant Gray concerning the proselytizing system. 

I must bring the subject round again, for your spe- 
cial benefit.” 

“ You are very kind,” said Trelawney, “ to 
think of me in any case.” After a moment’s pause, 
he added : “ I, too, saw something of interest yes- 
terday. Have you been to Jenkinson’s school 
ately 

“ No,” said Eleanor ; “ not since I was there 
dth you.” 

“ Well ! I was there yesterday, and what do you 

ink they have got, by way of improvement 1” 

“ I am sure I cannot tell.” 

“ Neither less nor more than a huge trough, 
siLiilar to that used for swine, for the greater fa- 
cility of administering the stirabout.” 

“ Why, surely, you are not serious. Sir James ? 
You don’t mean to say that they make the children 
eat from a trough . 

“ Precisely so,” replied the barone'i — “ I mean 
•ust what I say. The thing was exhibited to me as 
a capital contrivance. Oh, blessed effects of the 
New Reformation !” he added, bitterly. “ Re- 
ducing the children of the poor to the level of the 
brute creation, and yet for this they are to barter 
the faith of their fathers — the old, venerable faith 
that raised them above the wants and woes of 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


281 


earth !” As he spoke thus, with uiiusaal earnest, 
ness, he felt a slight pressure on his arm, and met 
Eleanor’s dark eyes raised to his for a moment 
with an expression that made him thrill all over, 
for there was in it both sympathy and approbation. 
No more was said at that time, for just then they 
reached the door of the dining-room, but all that 
evening Trelawney felt happier and more hopefal 
than he had for a long time past. 

The evening wore away rapidly. “ Laugh, and 
song, and sparkling jest went round,” and the gen- 
tlemen lingered long over their wine, so that it 
was fully eight o’clock when they joined the ladies 
in the drawing-room. The company had formed 
itself into small detached groups of two and three 
here and there through the spacious apartment, 
and Amelia had just taken her place at the harp, 
when a servant came in to tell Mr. Ousely that 
there was person below stairs who wanted to see 
him. 

“ Do you know who it is, Billy 1” 

“ Faith, an’ I do, sir. It’s Misther O’Hagarty — 
the priest that was, sir. Between ourselves, your 
honor,” lowering his voice to a confidential tone ; 
“ Between ourselves, he’s not the soberest in the 
world. He’s as full as a piper !” 

“ What the d — 1 brings him here, then 1” cried 
Ousely aloud. “ Tell him I can’t see him now. ' 

I did tell him that, sir, an’ he was near sthrikin 

24 * 


S82 


NEW lights; or, 


me. He says he must see you, let what will coma 
or go ! — you may as well come at once, your 
honor, for he’ll not go without seein’ you.” 

“ Confound him for a beast !” growled Ousely, 
as he rose to follow the servant. 

“ Fie ! fie ! Ousely I” cried Dixon, from the 
other side of the room — “ Is it thus you speak of 
a pillar of the New Reformation — a valued protege 
of the Priests’ Protection Society? Go and see 
him by all means, lest he should be tempted to 
come up here, an honor which none of us covets, 
I am sure ! He must be non compos mentis^ by this 
time, I think !” 

Ousely went down with visible reluctance, 
whereupon the company began to discuss the sub* 
lect of tne proselytizing system, and it was gene- 
rally admitted to be one of the grand humbugs of 
the age. 

“ And a humbug which is likely to produce the 
most serious and lasting evils,” said Dixon — “ that 
is, as far as it produces any thing. Now, I am a 
Protestant. I belong to the church by law estab- 
lished in these realms, nor have I the slightest in 
tention of ever leaving it, for to tell the truth, I 
neither know nor want to know, any other form of 
Christianity, but I am perfectly convinced, and 
that from ocular demonstration, that there is not 
the shadow of a chance of effecting a change in the 
religion of the Irish people. The Catholic religion 


LIFE IN GALWAY 


283 


is a part of their very nature — it is iiterl wined 
with all their dearest and most glorious associa- 
tions ; it is peculiarly adapted to the nature of 
man ; ii is essentially a religion of comfort and 
consolation, and, therefore, dear to the suffering 
and the poor, and the consequence is that it is 
scarcely ever rooted out from a country where it 
has once been planted.” 

“Witness our own England!” said Hampton, 
“ where it is now springing up with renovated 
strength, after an interval of three hundred years, 
during which it was supposed to be dead !” 

“ Oh ! it was only taking a nap !” said Amelia. 
“ Its slumbers were watched over all the time by 
those venerable worthies, the Vicars Apostolic !” 

“But, talking of the Church of Rome here in 
Ireland,” resumed Hampton, “ I can well under- 
stand many of the reasons why all attempts at 
Proselytism should prove abortive. Now, let us 
take it as our starting-point, that salvation is cer- 
tainly to be attained within the pale of the Roman 
Church — though none of us will approve of her 
appropriating it exclusively to herself — then, let 
us remember the long series of ages during which 
it has flourished in this country — let us consider 
th^ almost innumerable multitude of saints and 
heroes, poets and sages, whose names are held in 
fond rememh ranee by the Catholics of Ireland ; in 
fact, there is scarcely a name which they hold dear 


184 


NEW lights; or, 


or sacred, Uiat is not intertwined with Catholia 
associations — nay, identified with Catholicity itself. 

* Look at their O’Neills and O’Donnells, and, in- 
deed, all their warrior-princes ; were they not fight- 
ing the battles of their religion as well as of their 
country — and on that very account it is that their 
names and their actions are enshrined in the hearts 
of a grateful and a religious nation. Look over 
this island, from east to west and from north to 
south, and you will see it covered, literally covered 
with monuments of Catholic piety and Catholic 
worship. You will see monasteries, and cathe- 
drals, and churches, and stone-crosses — these last 
even in the midst of the market-places. All these 
are in ruins, it is true, but therefore the dearer to 
a tender and poetic people like these Irish Celts. 
When we think of all this, how silly, how absurd 
do these proselytizers appear ! Why, if I were 
an Irish Catholic, I would treat these imbecile fa- 
natics with contempt and scorn — by my sacred 
honor, I would !” 

“ And so they do, captain, so they really do,” 
said Dixon. “ That is precisely the feeling where- 
with they are regarded by the nation at large, as 
far as I can see ! — and no wonder — they bring it 
on themselves.” 

“ But really, Frederick,” said his wife, laughing 
heartily, “ one would suppose you were half a 
Catholic yourself. Where in the world did you 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


285 


pick up so much knowledge about this Ireland ? — • 
I’m sure I wouldn’t bother my brains about it, for 
it is not worth half the trouble that’s taken with 
it! If it depended on me, the Irish might have 
their religion, and welcome 1” 

“ Not a doubt of it, Caroline,” replied the cap- 
tain — “ and I don’t think you are far wrong. As 
to your wonder at my knowing anything of Irish 
history, we’ll let that pass, for any one who knows 
you would never dream of your burthening your 
memory with anything relating to Ireland. I only 
want to set you and this good company rightabout 
my probable tendency to Catholicity. No ! no ! — 
it is a religion that would never do forme, because 
of its various mortifications and humiliations. I 
respect it, I confess, but, by George ! I’d rather 
see any one else embrace its tenets than myself. 
If I were some thirty years older, then, indeed, I 
would have less objection, but noio ''* — he shook his 
head with comical gravity — then starting to his 
feet, led Eleanor to the piano, saying — “ Pshaw ! 
what a dull subject we have been harping on for 
the last half hour ! — Do, pray. Miss Ousely, let 
us have some enlivening music. You play Belli- 
ni’s grand marches, do you not f’ Eleanor smiled 
assent, and the whole company was soon listening 
entranced to the “ witchery of sweet somds.” 

By the time the march was concluded, Ousely 
made his appearance, and announced that he 


JgG NEW lights; or, 

at last got rid of O’llagarty. “And a d-< — d 
bore he is, too. I wish the Protection Society 
would send us a better specimen of a converted 
priest — 1 begin to despise this fellow, curse him !” 

“ I rather think,” said Dixon, archly, “ that it 
isn’t the Society’s fault — if they had better, they’d 
send better, that’s all. You must only take him 
as you find him, for if you wait for a good, moral, 
intelligent 'prmt from the Protection Society, you’ll 
wait a long time, I can tell you. Such priests are 
only to be found in the Church of Rome — they 
never leave it.” 

Ousely was about to make an angry retort, 
when Trelawney proposed a game at whist, in 
compliance with a significant gesture from Mrs. 
Ousely. Seeing, however, that Eleanor and Ame- 
lia were looking over a volume of engravings, he 
contrived to be left out, and joined the young 
ladies. 

“ I thought you were going to take a hand !” said 
Amelia, pushing a chair towards him. “ It was a 
pretty thing for you to propose cards, and then 
take yourself off. I fancy we have the pole-star 
somewhere about here ; eh, Eleanor ! what do you 
think f’ 

“1 rsally don’t know,” said Eleanor, though her 
emscious blush spoke a different language. “I 
have not been accustomed to cor\sider the astro- 
nomical bearings of this room.” Just then her 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


28T 


eyes met Trelawney’s and the blush deepened on 
her cheek. Amelia smiled and shook her head. 

‘•Well! well, good people, I’ll be generous for 
once. What did you think of Captain Hampton’s 
defence of Popery, cousin Trelawney V’ 

“ I thought it very creditable to his head and 
heart,” replied the baronet ; “ he has read more 
and thought more than one would suppose. By 
the bye ! Miss Ousely — ” 

“ Nonsense !” cried Amelia ; “ why don’t you 
call her Eleanor, as I do ? You may as well break 
the ice at once ! — how very ceremonious you are 
with your Jfiss Ousely P"* And she imitated his 
tone so perfectly, that the others laughed heartily. 

“ Well 1” said Trelawney, “ I was going to ask, 
when you stopped me, whether there were any of 
those old monasteries in this neighborhood. 1 
should like, of all things, to see some of them.” 

“ You need not wish long, then,” said Eleanor, 
“for we have one at Loughrea, within a few hours’ 
ride of us. There is an old Carmelite monastery 
there, which dates back to the first years of the 
fourteenth century. It is a very interesting relic 
of the past greatness of Ireland, and is well wor 
thy of attention, as a specimen of the ecclesiastical 
architecture of that period. We can make up a 
party and go there, the first fine day that comes.” 

“ You will oblige me by doing so,” said Trelaw- 
ney, “ as I may not soon have an opportunity of 


J88 NEW lights; or, 

seeing such a sight, and it will give me real ple'a- 
sure.” 

“ It will be a mournful pleasure, I warn you,” 
said Eleanor, “ for I defy any one to. spend an hour 
there without falling into a meditative mood. Even 
our Amelia here — wild girl that she is — ” 

“ Thank you- kindly !” said Amelia, with mock 
gravity ; “ but I’m not very fond of meditating, 
like Hervey, ‘ among the tombs’ — I leave that to 
you serious people. Still, if you think of visiting 
Loughrea Abbey, I have no objection to be of the 
party. AV^hat do you think of asking the Reverend 
Mr. O’Hagarty she suddenly added, with a smile. 

“ I rather think,” said Trelawney, “ that the 
excellent gentleman is not much of an antiquary. 
I should suppose him more interested in the re- 
spective qualities of Port and Claret, than in the 
different styles of architecture, or the progressive 
history of Christian art. But I see your father is 
on the move, Amelia.” 

“ I declare, so he is ! I must be off and get on 
my muffling !” So saying, away she ran, leaving 
Eleanor and Trelawney tete-a-tete for a moment. 
The only words that passed between them was a 
whispered inquiry from Trelawney, as to wdiere 
the O’Dalys had taken shelter, and Eleanor’s brief 
reply that Phil Maguire had made his home theirs. 
By this time the guests were all in motion, and 
carriage after carriage rolled from the door. 


LIJi E IN GAL WAY. 


1S9 


CHAPTER XIIT. 


When man has shut the door, unkind, 

On Pity, earth’s divinest guest. 

The wanderer never fails to find 
A sweet abode inVoman’s breast, 

CARCiNIT. 

“Pretty doings are here, sir, (he angrily cries, 

While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise) — 

’Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God !” 

Moore’s Intercepted LeUert. 

It was on the second day after the ejectment of 
the O’Dalys that Sir James Trelawney rode over 
to Phil Maguire’s, and as he gave his horse to a 
boy who w^as loitering around outside, those within 
the house were taken by surprise when he raised 
the latch and wailked in. Phil and Nanny both 
came forward to welcome him, and Bernard O’Daly 
stood up from his comfortable seat in the chimney- 
corner to make a low bow to “ the English gentle- 
man — God bless him.” Kathleen and Bridget got 
up from their spinning-wheels, and each dropped a 
low curtsey, and it was on every side, “ God save 
you, sir !” — “ I’m proud an’ happy to see your 
honor here !” — “ Will you please to take a seat, 
sir But there w'as one smiling face there that 
arrested the young man’s gaze for a moment-— it 
26 


NEW lights; or, 


zdo 

was the face of Eleanor Ousely, who- had been sit- 
ting beside Bernard, but had stood up with the rest. 

“ You here, Miss Ousely 1” he said, with marked 
emphasis. 

“ And I may retort,” replied Eleanor, with her 
meaning smile ; “ Who would have thought of 
seeing you here 

“ Oh, then, indeed, sir,” said Bernard, “ it’s noth- 
ing new to see Miss Eleanor cornin’ amongst us. 
The Lord’s blessin’ be about her, she has been 
cornin’ to see us now an’ then, ever since she was 
the size of our Eveleen there.” This introduced 
Eveleen, who came modestly forward, at her 
father’s bidding, to shake hands with “ the strange 
gentleman.” 

When Sir James had said something civil to 
each of the others, he turned again to Eleanor. 
“ But, surely. Miss Ousely, your father is not aware 
of this visit V 

“ Certainly not. Sir James ! but my mother «s, 
and her sanction is quite sufficient for me. I have 
already told you,” she added in a low voice, “ that 
I am much interested in this family, and their pre- 
sent circumstances are truly pitiable. I kno\V not 
what they should do were it not for Phil Maguire 
and his excellent wife. There must be something 
done for them, for they cannot be left as they are, 
and it may be some mciiths yet before they can 
get relief from America. How I envy those,’^ she 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


291 


eaid almost inaudibly, “ who have available funds of 
their own ! — But,” raising her voice, “ did you hear, 
Sir James, of the last visit which Bernard received 
from the Scripture-readers ?” 

“ No — when was it 

Bernard gave an account of the interview in hb 
own simple manner, and as he proceeded there 
came a flush of indignation over Trelawney’s fine 
features, and his dark eye sparkled with unwonted 
fire. 

“ The vile miscreants !” he exclaimed, when the 
old man had told all. “ They would make the 
liitter cup more bitter still — surely they could have 
had no hopes of succeeding then — had they not 
often tried you before 

“ Not very often, your honor,” returned Bernard. 
“ It was only once before that they ventured into 
the house, an’ that was the night of Honora’s wake. 
Poor Honora !” he added, rubbing the back of his 
hand across his eyes ; it’s well she wasn’t alive 
to see or hear them !” 

“ But you may be sure they had hopes, your 
nonor,” observed Phil Maguire ; “ for they some- 
times do get people to give in at sich times that 
aever w^ould listen to them before. It doesn’t hap- 
pen very often, to be sure, but then they know 
very well that it’s a hard trial an’ a sore tempta. 
tion for a father or mother of a family to go out 
on the wide world with their starvin’ little ones ; 


292 


NEW lights; or, 


an’ once in a while some poor creature gives in to 
them for a start, just hopin’ to keep the shelther 
over them till something ’id turn up. Oh, sir ! sir ! 
if you only knew the twists and thricks of them fel- 
lows, an’ the plans they take to get the poor mise- 
rable cratures hooked in ! — an’ still they go on and 
on, though they see as plain as can be that they’re 
makin’ no headway, nor gettin’ no footin’ in the 
country — God forbid that they did ! — sure they 
know as well as we do, that no one goes over to 
them only when they’re jist in a state of starvation, 
an’ that as soon as ever they get any manes of 
livin’ they come back again where their hearts were 
always. Besides, it’s well known, sir, both to them 
an’ every one else, that death brings every one 
back — every one, your honor, that has time to send 
for a priest. Now isn’t that a purty thing, sir ! to 
have these schamin’ villains goin’ about gettin’ 
money every where to convart the Papists, an’ 
makin’ people b’lieve that they’re doin’ the world 
and all. I ask your pardon, sir, if I’m givin’ 
offence.” 

“ Not at all, Mr. Maguirej” replied Trelawney ; 
you do but echo my own thoughts. If you only 
knew tho sources whence this money is raised, 
your surpiise would be still greater. I believe 
there is more sin committed in one day amongst 
those who subscribe for the conversior of the Irish, 
than there is in a whole year amongst your simple* 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


293 


hearted people. Shame on the hypocrites, and all 
honor to the virtuous poor, who brave every ill 
rather than give up their faith ! But where is ycur 
son, Mr. O’Daly V' 

“ He’s away at his work, your honor,” returnokd 
Bernard ; “ when he can get it to do he’s well 
pleased, poor fellow !” The old man sighed deeply, 
and there was a moment’s silence, during which 
Eleanor arose, and taking Kathleen aside, put a 
small parcel into her hand, charging her to say 
nothing about it until she and Sir James were gone. 
Sh-e then went back to Bernard, and inquired what 
he proposed to do ; “ for,” said she, “ my mother is 
anxious to know.” 

“ May the Lord bless her and you both, Miss 
Eleanor ; and reward you for all your goodness to 
me an’ mine ! In regard to what I mean to do,” 
he lowered his voice, “ you know I can’t stay here 
very long, so as soon as I get the childhren settled 
in some way I’ll thry an’ get into the poor-house !” 
The last word came out with a kind of sob, that 
told what words did not, the fearful anguish of the 
old man’s heart. 

“ What’s that you’re sayin’, Bernard cried 
Phil, whose quick ear caught the last word. “ Now, 
if it’s about the poor-house you’re talkin’, jist 
hould your tongue, for I tell you, honest man, tha 
you an’ I’ll not be friends if you keep such a notion 
in your head.” 


234 NEW lights; OE, 

“ Well, but, Phil dear !” said Bernard, in a de- 
precating tone — “ sure you know yourself that 1 
can’t nor won’t stay to be a burthen on you, an 
me not able now to do e’er a turn at all. For the 
little time I have to be in it, it’s no great matther 
v/here I am.” 

“ Now, Nanny, jist listen to that !” said Phil, 
testily. “ Why, I think the man’s takin’ lave of 
his senses. An’ indeed it wouldn’t be much won- 
der if he did !” he added, in a sort of soliloquizing 
tone. 

“ Tut, tut, Bernard !” exclaimed Nanny, stopping 
her wheel for a moment. “ Now, sure, you know 
well enough that you’re welcome to stay here as 
long as you live. There’s room enough for 
us all !” 

“ The short an’ the long of it is !” cried Phil, 
“ that I wish I might catch you leavin’ this to go 
to the poor-house, that’s all ! Upon my credit, 
Bernard O’Daly ! it ’id go to the strongest man 
between us — bad cess to me, but it would — an’ 
then I’d be sure to have it, so you may just as well 
content yourself where you are. You shan’t leave 
this house until you have one of your own to go 
to, let that be when it may ! Humph ! I declare 
It’s purty work I have with you !” 

Eleanor and Trelawney exchanged glances, and 
the latter, taking hold of Phil’s rough hand, shook 
it warmly. You make me proud of human na 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


295 


ture, Mr. Maguire !” said he struggling to keep in 
the tear which moistened his eye-lid. 

Anan said Phil, who scarcely understood 
his meaning, but probably guessing that it was 
complimentary to himself, he went over to Elea- 
nor, and began to give her an account of granny 
Mulligan’s achievement on the memorable day of 
the ejectment. 

“ I heard of it before,” said Eleanor. “ But I 
forgot to ask for the good old woman. Where is 
she now 

“ She’s gone down to Tullyallen the day,” re- 
plied Phil, “jistto see how her daughter’s grave 
looks — wherever she is, she always goes there once 
a month or so, to say some prayers over her colleen 
havm^ as she calls her, an’ to see the good man that 
helped her to bury her.” 

“ Well !” said Eleanor, “ I must go now — I have 
staid longer than I intended.” She reached her 
hand to Trelawney ; “ Good bye. Sir James! I 
hope you are coming to see us soon.” 

“Will you, not permit me to see you home, 
now *?” was the reply. “ I wish you w'ould.” 

“ No, no, I must take what we call a near-cut,” 
sne replied with a smile ; “ I must scamper through 
the fields, lest I might chance to encounter my fa- 
ther, W'ho, of course, does not know of this visit, 
I thank you all the same as though I could avail 
myself of your offer.” 


296 


NEW lights; or, 


She then shook Bernard by the hand, and as she 
bent to whisper some words of comfort, Trelaw- 
ney murmured to himself, in the language of 
Shakspeare : 

“ Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks. 

Shall win my love.’ 

Whilst he stood looking after her retiring form, 
Eleanor turned back from the door, to ask him 
whether he returned immediately to Clareview. 

“No,” said he ; “as you will not permit me to 
see you home, I shall call on Father O’Driscoll — 
a visit to him is one of my. greatest pleasures. 
However, if you have any message to send, I shall 
be but too happy to take it.” The message was 
for Amelia, and having given it, Eleanor hurried 
away, eager to escape hearing the prayers and 
blessings so profusely poured forth for her. What 
most struck Sir James was Eveleen’s fervent ex- 
clamation : “ Father dear ! isn’t it a pity Miss 
Eleanor’s not a Catholic 

“ Husht, child, husht !” said Bernard, w^ith a 
glance at Trelawney. “We must waif for God’s 
good time — He knows best when to do an’ what to 
do!” 

These words made an impression on Trelawney 
that he did not soon forget, and as he rode along 
to Father O’Driscoll’s cottage, they recurred oftea 
to his mind, and awoke a train of serious thought. 
He had gnie about half the way, when he w^as 


LIFE IN GALWAT. 


297 


overtaken Ly Mr. Ousely and the Leverend Mr 
O’llagarty on horseback ; they came up at full 
speed, but slackened their pace to have a chat with 
the baronet. 

“We are just coming from the poor-house, Sir 
James !” said Ousely. “ You must know that they 
have made me chairman of the Board of Guar- 
dians, and a d d troublesome office it is, too — ■ 

so this is our day of meeting, and I had to attend, 
whether I would or not. My friend O’llagarty 
went with me for company, though he made 
himself useful, too— eh, O’Hagarty !” 

“ Why, I did what I could,” returned the quon- 
dam priest, “ but not as much as I wished.” 

“ Well, well ! never mind — ‘ the worse luck now 
the better again,’ you know. You see. Sir James, 
we have the world and all of trouble’with these 
confounded Papists. There’s not a day we meet 
but we have some fuss or another about religion — 
some refractory member that can’t be broken in. 
So to-day we got Mr. O’Hagarty to try his powers 
of persuasion on them, but, upon my honor ! he 
got the worst of the battle, ha ! ha ! ha ! It’s bad 
enough, and still I can’t help laughing at it. Why, 
they wouldn’t hear a word from him, at all !” 

“ More fools they !” said O’Hagarty, with a sly 
leer at Trelawney. “ They don’t know' what’s good 
for them.” 

There was something in his tone that Ouselj did 


!98 


NEW LI OHTS ; OR 


not like, and he said with a sneer and a hoarse 
laugh : “ I find your reverence is not more success- 
ful in making converts than in making love 1” 

“ What do you mean, Mr. Ousely 1” said O’lTa- 
garty, bristling up, his face almost purple. “I 
don’t understand you !” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! man, don’t be in a passion, now ! 
you understand me well enough ! — it’ll never do 
for us to quarrel — you crack jokes yourself some- 
times, so you must give and take, by Jove ! I 
say. Sir James ! are you coming our way?” 

“No, Mr. Ousely; I am going to Father 
O’Driscoll’s. I wish I may find him at home.” 

“ The devil you are !” cried Ousely, almost 
fiercely, while O’Hagarty started as though an 
adder had crossed his path. “And pray what 
takes you there 

“ Certain business which concerns myself only,” 
said Trelawney, drawing himself up with that 
stately air, which he w’ell knew how to assume 
when necessary. “ Many a happy and profitable 
hour I spend with him, for in him 1 find the devoted 
Christian, the accomplished gentleman, and the 
profound scholar.” ' 

“ Deuce take him !” exclaimed Ousely, in a lower 
tone than was usual to him. 

“ Sir I” said Trelawney. 

“ I say, Sir James, that I don’t understand this 


LIFE IN GAL^ iT. 


299 


thing of associating with Popish priests, except 
they do as my friend on the right has done !” 

“ Well, Mr. Ousely, our opinions on this subject 
are very different, and no good can come of our 
discussing it farther. I hope the ladies are well 
to-day !” 

“ Quite well, thank you. O’Hagarty ! let us 
Dull out — McGilligan is waiting for us before now ! 
Good morning, Sir James ! we won’t detain you 
longer.” 

“ My respects to Father O’Driscoll, sir !” said 
O’Hagarty, with mock politeness. 

“ I am not accustomed to offer insult to any one, 
sir,” replied the baronet, haughtily, “ and I cer* 
tainly shall not deliver your message !” 

“What a d d proud young fellow that is !” 

said Ousely to his companion, when they had left 
the baronet some distance behind. 

“ He’s worse than proud,” returned O’Hagarty ; 
“ he’s impudent.” 

“ Oh ! as to the impudence, I can’t agree with 
you,” said Ousely, quickly ; “ he’s too much the 
gentleman ever to be impudent. I think he only 
served you right that time, after all. Come, now, 
old fellow ! don’t be angry. Come home and dine 
with me, and after that, we’ll ride over to the glebe, 
and see if Mr. Henderson has got that money for 
you. yet. I don’t know what the Society’s about, 
that it isn’t come to hand before now !” 


800 


NEW lights; or, 


O’Hagarty brightened up at the prospect of a 
good dinner and better wine in store for him, ai d 
by the time they reached the Hall, he was ready 
for anything that might offer. They dined an hour 
earlier than usual, and what was very wwusual, left 
the table not more than “ half seas over.” Telling 
the ladies that they were going to see Mr. Hender- 
son on business, and that they need not expect 
them for some hours, “ because they’d have to take 
a tumbler or two with Henderson,” the two wor- 
thies sallied forth, under favor of a rising moon. 

They talked gaily and loudly all the way down 
the avenue, and along the road for a considerable 
distance, till they were almost close to the Catholic 
Chapel, with its burying ground lying calm and 
•still in the moon’s soft light, almost every little 
mound shaded, and as it were protected, by its 
white cross. There was a moment’s silence, dur- 
ing which the two horsemen drew closer together ; 
then Ousely spoke, but his voice was husky : 
“ What in the worjd do these Papists put the cross 
at their graves for ? To scare away the devils, I 
suppose — ha ! ha ! and ditto the one on the top of 
the spire — ahem ! it isn’t such a bad ifotion after 
all ! But why the deuce don’t you speak, O’Ha- 
garty ? Your thoughts are all of money — all 
right, old fellow, ‘ money makes the mare go^ as the 
old proverb says !” 

They had now passed the Chapel, and OTIa- 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


30i 


garty suddenly recovered his loquacity. “ Why, 
a plague on your reverence,” said Ousely, “ is it 
afraid of the ghosts you were, or what came over 
you just now 

“ Mr. Ousely !” replied O’Hagarty, in a tone of 
indignation, “ I hope you don’t suspect me of such 
folly as that ? Bad as I am. I’m not much trou- 
bled with fear. There are many other causes that 
might keep a man silent at such a time.” 

“Well! I’m glad you’re not afraid,” said 
Ousely, putting spurs to his horse, “for here’s 
another grave-yard right before us now. Let us 
go on — the night is passing !” But O’Hagarty 
was again silent, and his eye involuntarily wan- 
dered over the small cemetery. All there was 
calm and silent as in the one just passed ; indeed, 
it was a prettier sight to look on, for there were 
stately monuments, and white tombstones, and neat 
headstones, but the cross was wanting : that sacred 
emblem — that sign of hope to man — was no where 
to be seen: Half drunk as he was, O’Hagarty 
shuddered, and a cold chill crept over him. Once, 
twice, did Ousely speak to him without obtaining 
an answer, and at last he laid hold of his arm, and 
shook it roughly, O’Hagarty started, and was 
very near screaming aloud, but finding that it was 
Ousely ’s hand that had grasped his arm, he affected 
to laugh at his own absence of mind^ and made a 
desperate effort to appear gay. 

3 « 


302 


NEW lights; or, 


Very soon the pair came in sight of Bernard 
O’Daly’s desolate homestead, and then it was Ouso- 
ly’s turn to fall into a reverie, but his did not last 
long, and he was ‘just giving his companion an 
animated and somewhat burlesque account cf the 
scene which had recently occurred there, when the 
stillness of the night was rudely broken by the 
report of a pistol, a ball whizzed over the neck of 
Ousely’s horse, and struck himself in the right 
arm. Ousely’s cry of anguish, O’Hagarty’s scream 
of surprise and terror, and a wild shout of “ Ven 
geance ! vengeance !” from behind the hedge, went 
up together on the still night-air; and then a 
solitary figure was seen darting across the field. 
Ousely, wounded as he was, would have pursued 
the assassin, but from this he was dissuaded by 
O’Hagarty, who represented to him that there 
was but little chance of their overtaking the fugi- 
tive, who could easily sneak into some hole or 
corner, while he was incurring the greatest danger 
from loss of blood. “ The best thing we can do,” 
said he, “ is to return to the Hall — that is, if you 
feel sufficiently strong. If not, we had better go 
on to the glebe.” 

“ Home ! home, then,” said Ousely ; I think 1 
have strength enough for that journey — ah ! that 

d d O’Daly ! — I knew the villain was in him 

lo the backbone! — But — oh! — don’t go so fast, 
O’Hagarty ! — But he’ll swing for this — lie shall, by 


LIFE IN GALWAr. 


303 


all that’s good, if every cursed Papist in the 
country was at his back ! — Easy — easy — I can’t 
keep up with you !” 

O’llagarty had tied his pocket-handkerchief on 
the wounded arm, but still the effusion of blood 
was going on, and by the time they reached the 
gate, Ousely was so exhausted that he could barely 
call out for Larry Colgan. The tall gate-keeper 
was not slow in making his appearance, and seeing 
his master back again so soon, with O’PTagarty 
supporting him on his horse, he cried out : “ Why, 
Lord save us, what’s the matther with your 
honor *?” 

“ Open the gate, you devil’s limb !” replied his 
master ; “ what do you stand gaping there for 1 — 
don’t you see I’m wounded — by Jove, O’Hagarty ! 
Fm afraid I’m done for ! — The d d villain !” 

“ Be composed, I beg of you !” said O’Hagarty ; 
“ it’s not so bad as you imagine !” 

Oh, murdher ! murdher !” cried Larry ; “ is it 
bleedin’ your honor is? — oh, then! oh, then! — 
what came over you at all, or who did it ?” Then, 
without w'aiting for an answer, he ran to the door, 
screaming at the top of his voice for Peggy : 

Come out here, Peggy ! — sure the masther’s 
shot !— he’s kilt, Peggy !” 

“ Hold your d d tongue,” said Ousely — “ it’s 

like yourself, one half too long.” 


304 


NEW lights; or, 


By this time Peggy was out, wringing her 
hands, and crying : 

“ Musha ! who done it, at all, at all ?” 

“ It will soon be known and heard, who did it 
murmured Ousely, who was growing fainter every 
moment. “I think I’ll stay in the gatehouse, 
O’Hagarty, till * there’s a carriage sent down for 
me. Go up as fast as you can, and tell them to 
^send the phaeton — it’s the easiest.” 

When O’Hagarty reached the house, he did not 
ask to see the ladies until he had first given the 
necessary orders about the carriage, and while 
Ben was getting it ready, he went into one of the 
parlors, and sent up a message to the effect that 
he M^ould be glad to see Mrs. or Miss Ousely for a 
moment. Eleanor, was down in an instant, for, 
knowing that her father and O’Hagarty had gone out 
together, both she and her mother were alarmed 
by this message, and his returning alone. On 
hearing that her father had been wounded, and was 
unable to come home without assistance, she 
clasped her hands, and turned pale as death. 

“Oh, my poor father!” she exclaimed. “This 
is just what I often feared ! — The blow has fallen 
at last 1 — Tell me, Mr. O’Hagarty, do you think 
his wound is likely to be dangerous ?” 

“ I should hope not. Miss Ousely ! it is only in 
the fleshy part of the arm, and slich wounds are 


LIFE IN GALWAT. 


305 


seldom dangerous. I don’t think there’s any se- 
rious cause for alarm.” 

“ Thank God !” cried Eleanor fervently, and with 
upraised hands. “Thank God, if it were only on 
my dear mother’s account. I hope you have 
ordered the carriage, Mr. O’Hagarty 

“Yes, yes, 1 think it’s ready by this 'time— 
there’s no time to be lost.” 

“ Well, then, will you be kind enough to go down 
in it, so as to support my poor father. I should 
go myself, were it not that I must break the 'news 
to my mother, and prepare her for what is com- 
ing ! Merciful God !” she murmured, as O’llagarty 
left the room, “ how retributive is thy justice ! But 
oh ! do not — do not calf my poor — poor father 
aw'ay now — leave him time to repent, oh my God ! 
and to profit by this fearful w'arning ! Now for . 
my task, to acquaint my dear mother of what has 
happened !” Then wiping away the tears which 
were trickling down her 'cheeks, she hastily as- 
cended to her mother’s dressing-room, where they 
had both been sitting. Mrs. Ousely met her 
daughter at the door, and eagerly demanded what 
had happened. 

“ I know there is something wrong,” said she ; 

“ 1 know it very well, so you need not try to con- 
ceal it from me.” Then, when the light fell on 
Eleanor’s pale and agitated features, “ah ! I knew 
26 * 


306 


NEW lights; or, 


it — there is something. Eleanor ! my child ! tell 
me — what has happened to your father ' 

“ Sit down, dear mother, and be patient — things 
are not so bad as you seem to suppose. My father 
is wounded, but it is only a flesh-wound in the 
arm. You may be sure it is not very bad, when 
he sat his horse for better than a mile after it 
happened. lie will be here in a few minutes — 
the carriage is gone down to Larry Colgan’s for 
him.” 

Mrs. Ousely sank almost fainting on a seat, for 
her trembling limbs would no longer support her. 
She gasped for breath, and for some moments 
could not articulate a word, but after a little, her 
tears burst forth, and she wept for a few minutes 
in silence, Eleanor making no attempt to console 
her, well knowing that it was better to let her 
emotion exhaust itself. When she saw her a little 
calmer, she reminded her that her father’s w'ound 
was not considered dangerous, and that, after all, 
they had the greatest reason to be thankful, inas- 
much as the same shot might have proved fatal. 

“But, Eleanor dear!” said her mother, wiping 
away her tears, “ who could have fired this shot? 
or did you hear how it happened 

“ I heard little or nothing more than what I have 
told you,” replied Eleanor; “unfortunately, my 
father has made himself so many enemies in the 
nc'-ghborhood, that it is hard to say who has done 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


307 


it. Still” — she paused, and there came a deeper 
shade of thought over her beautiful features — “ it 
might be — but no ! I cannot, cannot believe it ! — ' 
they who fear God as they do, will never have 
resort to such means !” 

‘ Eleanor !” said her mother earnestly, ” tell mo, 
for God’s sake, who it is that you suspect ? do yoA 
mean — ” 

“Hush, hush, mother! here they are — there 
comes the carriage 1 — let us go down stairs ! lean 
on me, my dear mother — you can scarcely stand ! 
Eor mercy’s sake, be composed, or your agitation 
will make my father think himself worse than he 
really is !” 

Ousely’s voice was now heard in the breakfast 
parlor, calling “ Hetty ! Nell ! where are you all 7 
Hang it, are they all asleep, that they take it so 
easy f’ 

“ Here we are, father dear 1” said Eleanor, as 
she supported her mother’s tottering frame across 
the room to where he sat, or rather reclined, in a 
large arm-chair. The sight of their pale, anxious 
faces was enough, and the wounded man held out 
his hand as they approached. “ There, there, 
Hetty ! don’t take it so bad ! don’t cry now ; not 
a tear, either of you — it’s not as bad as it might 

be, no thanks to that d -d bloody-minded villain 

for that ! Do you hear, O’Hagarty ! send or go 
yourself down to the Police Barracks, and teb 


308 


NEW LIGHTS^ OR, 


Captain Ramsay to send up a sergeant’s guard 
here at once — you can take one of the men with 
you, and come round by the glebe and bring Hen- 
derson with you — he’s a magistrate, you know. 
I’ll not sleep this night, till that scoundrel, O’Daly, 
is lodged where he won’t get out of for a while. 
Go at once, O’Hagarty ; and you, Eleanor, send 
off another messenger for Dr. Coleman.” 

O’Hagarty hesitated a moment, and Eleanor, as 
though she read his thoughts, exclaimed : “ Father ! 
are you sure it was O’Daly who fired at you % — 
oh ! be not rash in such a case ! — the O’Dalys — 
father or son — are the very last persons I would 
suspect of such a crime !” 

“ Nonsense, girl !” cried her father, raising him- 
self to a sitting posture ; “ I tell you it was that 
young scamp, O’Daly ! — who else would it be 1 — 
tell me that now — and it was just opposite to 
O’Daly’s house that the miscreant had concealed 
himself !” 

“ Mr. O’Hagarty !” said Eleanor, turning to 
him, “ you were with my father when the deed was 
committed — what do you say — could you identify 
the person who ran across the field after the shot 
was fired 

“ I really was too much shocked,” returned 
O’Hagarty, “ to take particular notice of the man, 
but your fiither says it was this O’Daly, and the 
moonlight enabled him to recognize him,” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


3x)d 

Bleanor turned away in disgust, murmuring to 
Shjrself : “ What a hard-hearted wretch — he knows 
tiiat the young man’s life is at stake, and yet he 
Rpeaks Muth the coolest indifference.” Aloud she 
said : But, father, only think of the excellent cha- 
racter borne by these O’Dalys — there are others 
who might just as well be suspected, if the eject- 
ment be your only reason for accusing Owen 
O’Daly. A young man brought up as he w^as, is 
not very likely .to commit such a crime with cool 
deliberation.” 

An angry exclamation from her father made 
Eleanor stop short, and O’Hagarty coolly said, as 
he buttoned up his coat : 

“ You forget. Miss Ousely, that the Popish reli- 
gion is ecsentially hollow and deceitful — sanctifying 
all crimes, provided they answer a certain pur- 
pose — it seems you know little of Popery, my 
good young lady 

“ More than you would suppose, Mr. O’Hagarty !” 
replied Eleanor, in a significant tone, as she left 
the room to send off for the doctor. 

Mrs. Ousely remained with her husband, who 
would not be satisfied till O’Hagarty was fairly 
staited, telling him that the bird might be flown if 
he made any further delay. 

‘ It may be too late even now !” said he, his 
■Vf ith blaming up aji^ain, at the bare idea. “ Ride 


«:o 


NEW lights; Oft, 


now for life and death, if you wish to^ retain my 
friendship. Take Jerry with you — there he is !” ' 

When the doctor arrived, and had examined the 
wound, he oi'dered Mr. Ouscly to he undressed and 
put to bod, but said there was little or no danger, 
provided the patient were kept quiet, and made to 
observe a strict regimen. 

“ You must live low for a few days, my dear 
sir !” said he ; “ but you need not grumble at that, 
I think, considering that you have escaped so 
easily. Mind and avoid all excitement — I have 
dressed your arm now, and I assure you it is no 
more than a scratch — if you only do as I bid you, 
it will be as well as ever in eight or ten days ! 
Good night, Mrs. Ousely ! I was going to give 
you my parting charge, but I suppose it is Miss 
Ousely who will be head nurse. Now, Miss 
Eleanor, you are to see that your father drinks 
nothing stronger than barley water or weak tea. 
And as for his eating, let it be dry toast or water 
gruel !” 

“ Why, d n it, doctor, do you mean to starve 

me cried Ousely. 

“No, my dear sir, I mean to cure you — keep 
cool and quiet now till I see you again. I must 
now wish you good night, for I am in a great 
Hurry.” 

OTIagarty lost no time in sending the police, 
and the peaceful inmates of Phil Maguire’s house 


MFE INGA -.WA r. 


3n 

were just on their knees, saying the Rosary of the 
Blessed Virgin, when the sergeant knocked at the 
door. ♦ 

“ Who’s there ?” said Phil. 

“ A friend — open the door !” 

“ Why, then, you’re late abroad, whoever y(»ii 
are ! an’ your voice is strange to me ! — what are 
you wantin’ at this time o’night f’ 

“ Let me in and I’ll tell you !” was the reply. 

“ God direct me what to do !” said Phil in an 
under tone to those within. 

“ Open the door !” said the stern voice without ; 
“ I command you in the Queen’s name !” 

“ The Lord save us !” said one and another. 
“ It’s the police — what brings them here I” 

“ Why, open the door, Phil,” said Owen, going 
towards the door. “ Sure none of us has any 
reason to be afraid. I suppose they’re Marching 
for some one that they think may have taken refuge 
here !” 

“ Well, I’ll open it, in the name of God,” said 
Phil. He did, and the sergeant walked in, followed 
by a few of his men, the rest remaining outside. 

“ Fine night, sir !” said Phil. The sergeant 
nodded in silence, and looking around, fixed his 
eye on young O’Daly. 

Are you Eugene, otherwise O veil O’Daly 
** That’s my name, sir !” replied Owen quickly. 


B12 


NEW lights; on, 


“ I arrest you, then, in the Queen’s name and 
lie laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder. 

The women screamed aloud, and Bernard ^stag- 
gered forward, pale as death : 

“ What’s that you say f ’ he stammered out. 

“ Tor wlmt do you arrest me said Owen, with 
a firmness beyond his years. “ What have I done 

“ Ay ! what has he done 1” cried Phil Maguire, 
as soon as he had recovered from the astounding 
effect of the sergeant’s words. “ I know he hasn’t 
done anything to be arrested for — that’s plain — 
but what is he arrested for 

The sergeant looked from one to the other with 
his cold, dull eyes ; then answered them all at the 
same time : 

“ He is arrested on suspicion of having fired at 
Mr. Ousely of Ousely Hall !” 

“ The* Lord save us !” cried Phil — Bernard was 
not able to speak. “ An’ was Misther Ousely 
shot? — arrah, when did it happen, if you please, 
sir 

“ Come ! come ! I can’t stand here answering 
questions. Put on your hat, young man ! and 
come with us — you’ll soon know all about it !” 

“Sir!” said Owen, drawing Vis slight figure up 
to its fullest height; “Sir! I have never fired at 
any man, and if Mr. Ousely has been shot, I never 
heard of it till this momeriL I have neither act, 
part, nor knowledge of it. When did it happen f* 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


313 


“ To-night — about an hour ago I” replied the ser- 
geant sternly. “ Steph^^nson ! have you the hand- 
cuffs there ? — give them here !” 

“ Why, the Lord bless you, sir,” cried Nanny 
Maguire, “ sure we can every one of us swear that 
the poor boy didn’t cross that threshold since night- 
fall — we can, indeed, sir !” 

“ It’s the thruth she’s tellin’ you, said Phil, ear 
nestly ; “ we can take our Bible- oath of it. Why, 
what in the wmrld wide put it in any one’s head to 
accuse him of it — him that wouldn’t hurt a dog ! — 
hut! tut!” 

By this time poor Bernard began to realize the 
dreadful truth ! — they were putting the handcuffs 
on his innocent child — his poor boy, that never 
did man or mortal any harm ! 

. “ Oh, sir, dear !” he cried, the tears streaming 
down his furrowed cheeks — “Oh, sir, dear, don’t 
do it — God for ever bless you, an’ don’t — oh, 
Kathleen,, Bridget, come here — an’ little Eveleen! 
all o’ you come, childhren, an’ beg o’ the gentle- 
man not to take your brother away from us. Oh ! 
sure he’s all we have noio /” 

But neither tears nor prayers could avail — the 
old man and the -weeping girls, and Nanny, with 
her officious kindness, were in turn pushed aside, 
and poor Owen was marched away like a common 

felon between twe of the policemen, 

37 


314 


NEW lights; ob, 


CHAPTER XIV. 


« Yes — rather plunge me back in Pagan nij^ht, 

And take my chance with Socrates for bliss, 

Than be a Christian of a faith like this, 

Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway, 

And in a convert mourns to lose a prey.” — Moobe 

The whole neighborhood for miles around wa.s 
thrown into consternation by the news of Ousely’s 
mishap, and O’Daly’s arrest, consequent thereon. 
The whole corps of the proselytizers was filled 
with a holy horror, and sputtered out a great deal 
of bile against the atrocious system, which not 
only tolerated, but encouraged, such murderous 
deeds. Some of them even talked of packing 
up and decamping ; for when such a man as Mr. 
Harrington Ousely — a resident landlord, spending 
his income liberally amongst his tenantry — when 
he had been shot at, what could tluy expect ? — 
they, who were strangers in the country, and so 
vilely misrepresented and misunderstood by the 
ungrateful people for w^hose spirituarw^elfare they 
were so exceedingly anxious. Truly, it was as 
much as a man’s life was worth to venture out 
amongst such a set of savages. Others thought 
that there was the greater field for their civilizing 


MFE IN GALWAY. 


315 


Rxertions — the deeper and darker tlie shades of 
l‘opery and its attendant vices, the more loudly 
Were they^ the world’s enlighteners, called upon to 
remain, and to redouble their efforts to disseminate 
Gospel truth, and to propagate sentiments of 
Christian charity. As for this vile assasin, O’Daly 
the holy conclave trusted he would be made an 
example of, in order to deter others from attempt- 
ing similar crimes. “It will be,” said they, “a 
crushing blow for Popery if he is hung, seeing that 
these O’Dalys are considered as very pious, good 
Papists. It is the best use the young ruffian can 
be put to, for it may help to turn many away from 
following ‘ the great delusion.’ ” 

Such were the characteristic thoughts and say- 
ings of the Scripture-readers and their employers , 
but, by the country at large, the matter was 
viewed in a far different light. Those who knew 
the O’Daly family scouted the bare possibility of 
Owen’s having been guilty of such a crime, and 
even went so far as to say that it was much more 
likely that some of Ousely’s own kidney had fired 
tiie shot, for the diabolical purpose of having it 
blame(l on the Papists. Even those who knew 
the O’Dalys only by repute, were deeply interested 
in Owen’s fate, and had but little sympathy for 
the wounded man^ who, of late years, was little 
better than a public see urge, whether in his capa- 
city of landlord or of magistrate. “ The devil’s 


316 


NEW lights; or, 


good cure to him !” was the brief but expressive 
comment of by far the greater number. “ It’s 
long since he earned that, and worse if he got it — 
many’s the poor family he sent to desolation, since 
the unlucky dav that he took it into his head to 
join the Bible-readers !” “ Yes, but poor O’Daly,” 

said others ; “ I’m afeard it’ll go hard with him, 
whether he did it or not, for there’ll be no want of 
swearin’ — th^ Lord deliver the poor gossoon out o’ 
their hands, if it’s His holy will this day !” 

“ Amen ! I pray God, in case he’s innocent, an’, 
between you an’ me, if he did do it, it’s not much 
to be wondhered at, considerin’ what happened the 
other day.” 

Such was the state of public feeling, on the day 
that poor Owen O’Daly was sent off to Galway 
jail, there to remain till the Spring Assizes. As a 
special act of favor, his father and Kathleen had 
been permitted to see him, but Father O’Driscoll 
w'as refused admission, though the poor lad ear 
nestly desired to see him. In vain did the priest 
apply in person to the magistrates, the answer was 
a cold, contemptuous refusal, and the prisoner was 
sent off without the comfort of seeing his pastor, 
or obtaining his parting blessing. This was “ th’ 
unkindest cut of all” to poor Bernard ; he and his 
daughters, with Phil and Nanny Maguire, took 
theY station as near as they would, be allowed t<5 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


ait 


Ihe door, so as to exchange a sad farewell with 
Owen, who looked 

" As pale and wan 

As him who saw the spectre-hound in Man.” 

Dut he was calm and composed — he shed no tears, 
though he could scarcely restrain them, when he 
saw his aged father and his three sisters weeping, 
but all unmanly softness was banished from his 
young heart, when he was rudely prevented from 
answering Phil’s friendly greeting, and Nanny’s 
fervent “ God be with you, Owen machreeP’’ Lit- 
tle Eveleen stretched out her arms to her brother 
as soon as he appeared, but she was pushed back 
by a policeman. “ Owen, Owen dear !” cried the 
affectionate child, “ sure you’re not going away 
from US'? sure you’ll not leave US'?” A melan. 
choly smile was the only answer poor Owen could 
give her, and that smile only served to increase 
the anguish of the sorrow-stricken group. 

“ Well, I vow to God !” said Phil, dashing away 
the tear which he did not wish any one to see ; “ I 
vow to God, this is enough to turn a man’s blood 
into gall, but never mind, Bernard, never mind ! 
leave it all in the hands of God, an’ you’ll see that 
He’ll bring Owen safe back to you. He knows 
who's innocent an’ who’s guilty, blessed be his 
name for ever. Come away home^ Bernard — here, 
lean on my arm — keep up your head like a man — 
now, don’t you know very well that all the Jumpers, 

•i7* 


tl8 NEW lights; or, 

and Bilde-readers, and peelers in the country can’t 
hurt a hair of his head without it’s God’s wiL 

“ What’s that you’re saying about peelers *?” 
said one of the policemen, who was sitting on the 
window sill. 

“ What’s that to you ?” replied Phil, b'.untly ; 
“ I’m mindin’ my business, do you mind yours, that’s 
if you have any ! Come, Bernard ! Nanny; bring 
the girls with you.” The discomfited policeman 
hurled an impotent curse after the sturdy farmer, 
put, as Phil said, “ he might as well whistle jigs to 
a mile-stone, for all he cared.” 

The girls were profuse in their lamentations all 
the way home, but the heart-broken father was 
scarcely heard to speak. His sorrow was too 
deep for words, and he could neither weep noi 
complain. When they reached home, they found 
Father O’Driscoll waiting for them, anxious to 
offer some consolation to that afflicted family. 

“ So you have seen poor Owen ?” said he. 

“ Och, /arcer gar! yis, your reverence,” replied 
Bernard, “an’ for me, I’ve seer the last of him, for 
my coorse is nearly run. Father O’Driscoll, an’ I’ll 
be at rest, I hope in God, before the ’Sizes comes.” 

“ Ho, ho !” said the priest, in as cheerful a tone 
as he could assume, “ don’t give up so easily, Ber- 
nard. Please God, you’ll live to see Owen at 
home again, safe and sound, and perhaps Cormac 
and Daniel, toe I just came now with some good 


LIFS IN Q A1 WAY . 


319 


news to you. You must be quiet, however, before 
I tell you a word of it.” 

“Oh, Father O’Driscoll dear, what is it?” cried 
llernard ; “you see Fm as quiet as can be, now 1” 

The whole family gathered round in eager 
expe(?tation, and the priest smiled, as he glanced 
from one anxious face to the other. “ Now, what 
I am about to tell you,” said he, “must be kept a 
secret amongst ourselves for some days longer. 
1 have heard something this morning, that, if true, 
will extricate poor Owen from his dangerous posi- 
tion. There is a person who left yesterday in 
great haste for Galway, there to take shipping for 
America, and, from certain circumstances which 
have come to my knowledge, it was he who fired 
at Mr. Ousely.” 

“ The Lord in heaven be praised !” cried Bernard, 
clasping his hands in an ecstasy of gratitude. 
“ That news has made me twenty years younger, 
and I think I could walk every foot of the road to 
Galway, to tell it to my poor boy !” 

“ Yes, but you must remember what I told you,” 
said Father O’Driscoll j “ you’re not to say a word 
to any one about this, until I give you leave. It 
might put our enemies on their guard, and it is 
better to say nothing about it until we are quite 
sure. I know myself that Owen is innocent — of 
that I have no doubt whatever — but my knowing 
it is of no avail, unless we have positive proof as 


i20 


NEW L I G II r B ; OR, 


to who is guilty. I merely told you this in order 
to give you some reasonable grounds for hope.” 

“Well, God bless you, at any rate, Father 
O’Driscoll!” said Phil. “It’s you that’s always 
bringin’ us comfort in one way or another. Won’t 
you stay an’ have some dinner with us, your reve- 
rence ?” 

“ Bo, Father O’Driscoll,” said Nanny, who was 
bustling about in her culinary affairs, assisted by 
Bridget O’Daly ; “ there’s a fine piece of bacon 
there in the pot, that’s as sweet as a nut, an’ some 
fine white cabbage that you didn’t see the beat of 
this year.” 

“ I wish I could avail myself of your kind invi- 
tation,” said the priest, with a smile, “ but, tempt- 
ing as your bill of fare certainly is, Mrs. Maguire, 
I cannot wait for dinner. I have to go down to 
the lake shore, to see a poor woman who is lying 
sick there under a shed. She is a poor lone widow, 
who was turned out of her little place a fortnight 
ago, and since then she has been lying under ashed 
which the neighbors put up for her. Alas ! such 
scenes are so common now-a-days,” he added, in a 
sorrowful tone, “that they excite no surprise. 
But God sees the suffering of his people, and Tie 
will reward them! Well! Eveleen, my child! 
did you hem those T andkerchiefs for me f’ 

“ I did, sir,” said Eveleen, coming modestly for. 
ward, with a small parcel in her hand. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


S21 


“ She was just waiting for you iG ask, your 
reverence,” said Kathleen ; “ she had them done 
two or three days ago.” 

“ Indeed !” said the priest, laying his hand on 
the little girl’s head. “Well! Eveleen ! here’s 
something to buy yourself a bonnet, or whatever 
you like, and I’m very glad to find that you are so 
industrious. I must speak to some gentlemen of 
my acquaintance, and get you some more handker- 
chiefs to hem.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Eveleen, Muth a low 
curtsey, and a bright smile of joy on her fair face. 
“ But it isn’t a bonnet or anything like that I’ll 
buy with the money. I know myself what I’ll do 
with it.” 

“And what is that, Eveleen?” asked Father 
O'Driscoll. 

. “ A pair of shoes for my father, sir !” replied 
Eveleen, in a low voice, her face covered with 
blushes. “ He’s badly in want of them.” 

Her father would have stopped her, but it was 
too late, and the priest patted her head again, 
saying : 

“ You’re a good girl, Eveleen, but don’t be in a 
hurry buying the shoes. You haven’t got enough 
there, and I’m sorry I haven’t any more change. 
But there’s a good time coming, Eveleen I” He 
then hurried away, leaving lighter hearts behind 
him than he himself had expected. So clastic is 


B22 


NEW lights; or, 


the Irish — the Celtic heart ! Before Eveleen had 
got any one to see after the shoes, there came a 
man to take her father’s measure for a pair. At 
first he would not tell who sent him, but when the 
question was pushed home, he admitted that it w'as 
Father O’Driscoll. 

“ An’ God knows,” added the honest shoemaker, 
“he can ill afford buying for others, for, to my 
knowledge, his own boots are none of the best — 
I’ve mended them in one way or another five or 
six times. But mind, you don’t let on that I tould 
you.” 

“ May the Lord clothe his soul with the glory of 
heaven,” cried Nanny fervently. 

“ Amen, I pray God !” said Bernard ; “ and 
yours too, Nanny !” for Nanny had knitted some 
pairs of comfortable stockings for Bernard since 
he had been her guest. “ It’s for which of you’ll 
do the most for us, anyhow,” he added. “ It’s one 
comfort we have, in all our throuble, that we’ve 
plenty of good, kind friends — the Lord reward 
them, here an’ hereafther !” 

Meanwhile, Mr. Ousely was rapidly recovering 
from the effects of his wound. He was very soon 
able to sit up, and to receive the congratulatory 
visits of his friends, and his dressing-room was 
crowded with visitors, for the first few mornings 
after he was declared convalescent. It was in the 
forenoon of that very day which saw Owen O’Daly 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


323 


lodged ill Galway jail, that Sir James Trelawney 
rode over to Ousely Hall. Before he went up 
stairs, he had a short interview with Eleanor in 
the breakfast parlor, and though he scarcely spoke 
half a dozen words, they were sufficient to make 
Eleanor’s eyes sparkle, and her cheeks glow ; nay, 
she even went so far as to reach out her hand 
(which, it is needless to say, was warmly taken), 
as she fervently exclaimed : “ I give you joy !” 

“ But am I to be alone, Eleanor said Trelaw- 
ney, still holding the beautiful hand, and looking in 
the still more beautiful face. 

“ Not long, if God so pleases !” replied the 
young lady, quickly'. “ But, go now — my father 
will wonder why you stay, for your arrival has 
been announced. You will find a bevy of spiritual 
consolers with him — if you have any interior 
wounds,” she added archly, “ you would do well to 
lay them open for examination.” 

“ The only interior wound I have,” replied Tre- 
lawney, with his own peculiar smile, “ is reserved 
for other inspection than theirs. Next time I 
come, I shall take the liberty of consulting you on 
the subject.” So saying, he turned away, leaving 
Eleanor to construe his words as she best could. 
When he entered the dressing-room, where Ousely 
was seated in cushioned ease, he found himseb 
face to face with O’Hagarty, and two other elderly 
gentlemen, one remarkably tall, and the othei 


824 NEW lights; or, 

remarkably short. These were introduced respeo 
lively as the Rev, Mr. Henderson, and the Rev. 
Captain Wilson. “Captain !” repeated Trelawney 
to himself, “ the Reverend Captain ! what an odd 
connection !” Little knew he, poor simple youth, 
of the *' strange anomalies of Irish life ! The 
gentlemen, especially the two latter, “ were de- 
lighted,” they said, “ to make Sir James Trelawney’a 
acquaintance — they had frequently heard of him, 
and had great pleasure in bidding him welcome to 
Ireland !” A formal bow was the only answer, 
and Trelawney, having shook hands with Mr. 
Ousely, and complimented him on his improved 
appearance, took his seat on a couch near him, and 
perceiving that his entrance had brought matters 
’to a dead stand, he begged that his appearance 
might not interrupt the conversation. 

“ Go on with what you were saying, Wilson !” 
said Ousely ; “ Sir James, you know, is one of the 
right sort.” 

“ I was just observing to our friends here,” said 
the reverend captain, “ that force, physical force 
alone, can ever make Protestants of these Irish^ 
We have been trying every other means for a num- 
ber of years past, and the result is far from being 
commensurate to the trouble and expense.” 

“ Physical force !” cried Ousely ; “ why, d n 

it, captain — I beg your pardon — what a discovery 
you’ve made ’ — hasn’t physical force been tried w itk 


LIT E IN GALWAY. 


325 


them for years and years before began our 
undertaking ? By George ! if physical force would 
convert them, they might have been converted 
lang ago.” 

“ I quite agree with my friend Ousely,” said the 
tall rector ; “ I, for one, have more faith in the 
effect of moral force ; public opinion is the lever 
that will upraise the heavy — the crushing weight 
of Popery from off this unfortunate nation ; bring 
that to bear upon them, and our cause is sure to be 
triumphant.” 

“ Humph !” said Ousely, “ all very fine talking, 
but I should like to know how public opinion, or 
moral force, call it which you will, is to be made 
available in this case. You might as well think to 
apply it to the Hottentots, who, I take it, are just 
as civilized and enlightened as the peasantry ot 
whom O’Connell, rat him ! was so proud. Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! I wish he could only see them now ! 
But what do you say, O’Hagarty ! — you should be 
better able to form an opinion on this subject than 
any of us !” 

“ My opinion is,” said O’Hagarty, in a very dog- 
matical manner, “ that yo i should stick to the 
soup arid stirabout ; leave the abstract questions 
of physical force and moral force to be discussed 
hereafler ; but at the present time, when famine ia 
making such havoc amongst the people, you will 
fmd the eatables all-powerful. Bread, and soup, 


326 


NEW LI GUTS ; Oft; 


and stirabout, my good friends,” he added, looking 
around with a scarcely perceptible sneer, “ are the 
only real w'eapons whereby you can defeat Popery, 
and the time is exceedingly favorable — the Bible 
itself is not half so powerful, take my word for it.” 

“Take care, my worthy friend,” said Henderson, 
with solemn gravity ; “ blaspheme not the Omni- 
potent word of God !” 

“ Upon my word and honor,” exclaimed Ousely, 
quickly, “ I think what he says is perfectly true. 
The only converts we have made were made by the 
soup and stirabout, together with the other little 
‘ creature comforts’ in our gift. I really think that 
what we have to do is to redouble our efforts to 
get money, so as to enlarge our ‘ sphere of useful- 
ness,’ as the saying is.” 

“ Talking of money,” said Mr. Henderson, ad- 
dressing the baronet, “ I have not seen your name. 
Sir James, on our list of subscribers. Surely you 
cannot be insensible to the vast importance of the 
W'ork in which we are engaged T’ 

“ I confess I am,” replied Trelawney drily. “ 1 
cannot see its importance.” 

“ How, sir f ’ cried the reverend captain fiercely ; 
“ do you pretend to say or insinuate that the people 
are just as well as they are 

“ I do, sir ! — I think they are not only as well, 
hut much better as they are. They and their 
fatheis for countless generations have held the same 


LIFE IN GALW iY. 


327 


faith. I believe it has conducted millions of them 
to heaven, and I see not why they should now be 
called upon to give it up, or change it for another 
of which they know nothing !” 

This frank avowal took the worthy allies by sur- 
piise ; not expecting such a home-thrust from such 
a quarter, they scarce knew what to say, and could 
only put on a swaggering air. Ousely put his 
arms a-kimbo, and began to look fierce ; the stout 
clerico-militaro grew very red all of a sudden, and 
Henderson knit his dark heavy brows into a very 
formidable frown. O’Hagarty seemed to enjoy 
the fun mightily, for still there was “^the laughing 
devil in his sneer,” which Trelawney well under- 
stood. 

“Eeally, my good sir,” said Henderson, who 
was the doctor of divinity amongst the saints of 
those diggings, “ it’s very strange to hear such sen- 
timents from an English Protestant.” (Trelawney 
smiled.) “ Is it because the Irish have been grovel- 
ling for ages in the darkness of superstition that 
they are to be allowed to remain so ? Their faith 
is idolatrous, sir, as you ought to know, if you 
know anything.” 

“ And yet it is the very faith brought to them 
by St. Patrick, fourteen centuries ago.” 

“ I deny it, sir,” exclaimed Henderson warmly ; 
“ I deny that the present system, called the Popish 
religicn, is the same that St. Patrick taught. The 


328 


NEW lights; or, 


population of this island is very nearly as degraded 
now, religiously speaking, as it was when Patrick 
made his appearance on these shores. If his mis- 
sion was then necessary, ours is just as necessary 
now !” 

This was spoken with an air so triumphant that 
it was evidently considered unanswerable, and 
Ousely, accordingly, slapped his knee vehemently 
W'ith his open palm, crying : 

“ Upon my honor ! that’s a clincher — eh, Tre" 
lawmey % answer that if you can.” 

The reverend captain rubbed his hands in great 
glee, as much as to say, “ He can’t — do his best !’’ 

Trelawney waited very quietly till the hubbub 
had somewhat subsided, then he said, with the 
utmost composure : v 

“ There is one trifling difference, my worthy sir, 
between yow” (bowing round to the three reve- 
rends) “ and St. Patrick : he w'as sent by Pope 
Celestine, but pray who sent you to evangelize the 
Irish nation 1 By what authority do you come hero 
to propose a new creed to the people 

“ By the authority of God, sir, and in His name, 
accredited by his holy word !” 

A scornful smile settled on Trelawney’s features 
as he answered : 

“ Very well said, indeed, sir ! — your answer 
Bcuuds well as a rhetorical flourish, but it is scarce- 
ly satisfactory. Who is to vouch for your being 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


339 


Bent by God? — you my you come by His authority 
but your saying it does not prove that it is so, 
Each one of you is his own ambassador, not the 
ambassador of God, for if you be His ambassador, 
where are your credentials T 

“ The Bible, sir,” replied Henderson, proudly ; 
“ the Bible — no good Protestant requires other 
credentials.” 

Trelawney smiled again. “ Why, sir, if that be 
so, you Anglicans have no sort of advantage over 
any of the sects who have sprung from you — if the 
Bible be your only credentials, then the Presbyte- 
rian, the Baptist, the Independent, the Unitarian, 
has just as good a right as you have to undertake 
the conversion of the Irish people from Popery.” 

He laid such an ironical emphasis on the word 
conversion that it nettled his hearers beyond en- 
durance. Ousely clenched his fist as though he 
meant to inflict corporeal punishment on the offend- 
er ; O’Hagarty’s brow grew black as night, and his 
face almost purple with rage, while the fat captain 
got upon his legs, primed and loaded for a stormy 
hai'angue. Henderson drew himself up, ditto his 
shirt collar, then concentrating all the bitterness of 
which he was capable (and it was no small amount) 
into his look and tone, said, fixing his scowling 
gaze on his smiling opponent : 

“It seems to me, sir, that you argue much more 
like a Papist, than a Protestant. Will you have 
28 * 


m 


NEW lights; or, 


goodness to set us right on that head ? Are yoiv 
or are you not, a Protestant 

“ I was, when I came to Ireland — It is true I 
never was an Exeter Hall Protestant, but still I was 
sincere in protesting against something which .( 
had been taught to regard as the Church of Rome, 
That was certainly my religion, if protesting can 
ever be called a religion, but — ” 

“ You protest no longer?” interrupted Hender- 
son with a sneer. “ You have learned to look more 
favorably on the Church of Rome.” 

“ So favorably, indeed,” replied Trelawney, 
coldly, “ that I entered her communion this morn- 
ing.” 

“ The d — 1 you did ?” cried Ousely. “ Now, if 
I thought you were in earliest, by all that’s good, 
I’d order you out of my house instantly.” 

“ I shall not put you to that trouble, Mr. Har- 
rington Ousely !” said Sir James, haughtily, as he 
arose from his seat ; “I am not in the habit ot 
jesting on serious subjects, and I repeat it, that I 
had the happiness of being received into the true 
Church this morning, by Father O’Driscoll.” 

Ousely sank back in his chair with a kind of 
groan, between a grunt and a sigh ; he did not 
dare to give full vent to his passion, when its 
object w'as a gentleman of rank and fortune. 
O’Hagarty shjTted uneasily on his seat, and winced 
beneath the contemptuous meaning of Trelawney’a 


LIFE IN GALWAr. 


331 


glance. Henderson raised his hands and eyes in an 
eostacy of pious horror; not so his fleshy and 
military brother, who could not refrain from 
showing his teeth, though he dared not bite. 

“ Perhaps you would be kind enough to inform 
ns, eir,” said he, in an ironical tone, “ what were 
the arguments which induced you to go over to 
Kome 

“ It would be too tedious to enumerate w^hat 
the^ W'ere, -everend sir,” replied Trelawney ; “ but 
I can easily tell you what they were not : — they 
were neither bread, soup, nor stirabout! Mr. 
O’Hagarty’s conclusive argument was not tried in 
my case ; whether they or some similar inducements 
operated with him^ I cannot pretend to say. Good 
morning, Mr. Ousely ! good morning, gentlemen,” 
bowing all round, “ I am sorry to part such pleasant 
company, but necessity^ you know, has no law /” 

He was just leaving the room, when he heard 
Henderson saying ; “ I pity the young man, I do 
indeed !” whereupon he turned on his heel, and, 
holding the door half open in his hand, said, with 
keen irony, “ I thank you, reverend sir, but I fear 
your compassion is thrown away, on one who h£.s 
just left the religion of Luther and Henry the 
Eighth for that of Ignatius Loyola and Francis 
Xavier — -my only sorrow is, for having so long 
remained out of that Church; which is, and has 
been, the nursery of saints !” He bowed again, 


352 


NEW lights; or, 


and withdrew to teJl Eleanor the result of tho 
conference. He found her with her mother, and 
had made up his mind to say nothing at all about 
it, but he had scarcely been seated, when Mrs. 
Ousely said, very stiffly : “ So it seems you have 
jecome a Catholic, Sir James'? — you have kept 
the process of your transition very quiet.” 

“ Of my conversion, madam,” suggested the 
baronet, laughing at the odd substitute employed 
by Mrs. Ousely; “pardon me for the liberty I take 
in correcting you ; such a change is essentially a 
conversion.” 

“ Oh ! as to that,” observed Mrs. Ousely, “ I 
have not the slightest intention of entering into an 
argument; your reasons for the change are, of 
course, satisfactory to yourself, but I must own 
that I have now less love than I ever had for Pa- 
pists oP their religion. It is not their fault that I 
am not a sorrowful widow this day ! I shudder 
when 1 think of their hypocrisy !” 

“Hypocrisy, my dear Mrs. Ousely!” said Sir 
James ; “ I really do not understand you 1” 

' “Why, how in the world could any one have 
suspected those O’Dalys of such diabolical malice ! 
after them, no one need ever talk to me of Papist 
morality or piety — they were cons*dered very 
pious people — very pious people indtcd^ and just 
see how far they carried their revenge — their cow 
ardly, treacherous revenge ! No, I shall never 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


333 


tgaiii place confidence in Romish people — foigive 
me, Sir James, but I cannot help speaking as I do !’• 

“ But, my dearest mother,” said Eleanor, “ you 
seem to take it for granted that young O’Daly did 
fire at my father. You are more severe than the 
British law, which always supposes a man innocent 
till he is proved guilty. You go on the opposite 
principle. Now, I have already told you that I do 
’not believe O’Daly guilty ; on the contrary, I am 
almost as sure of his innocence as if it were judi- 
cially proved. Time will tell which of us is right, 
but, in the meantime, I think we are not at all 
justified ill condemning the Catholic religion, 
because one who professes it is suspected of having 
committed a crime. I need not ask. Sir James, 
what your opinion is said Eleanor with a smile ; 
“ I think I can guess it.” 

Trelawney started and colored. lie had been 
thinking of something else, and it was his visible 
abstraction that made Eleanor smile. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said he ; “I believe I was 
forgetting myself, but certainly not ‘ to stone.’ I 
was just thinking how unfortunate it is for me that 
your mother. Miss Ousely, is so prejudiced just 
now against Catholics.” 

“ How so, Sir James f’ said Mrs. Ousely, open- 
ing her eyes wide. 

“ I was in hopes, madam, that I should have had 


334 


KEW lights; or, 


3 '‘our consent and good offices in a matter which !a 
of vital importance to my happiness.” 

Mrs. Ousely was, for a moment, at a loss to 
understand his meaning, but one glance at her 
daughter’s blushing face made it plain as the sun 
at noon -day. She was evidently taken by surprise, 
and her first emotio-n was one of displeasure : she 
sat upright in her chair, and put on a very serious 
look, and bit her lip till it became almost blood- 
less : gradually, however, there came a change in 
the expression of her features — they grew less and 
less rigid, until, at length, they resumed their usual 
mildness, and she said, in rather a kind tone : 

“ I cannot pretend to misunderstand you. Sir 
James Trelawney ! and though I knew not before 
that you did my daughter the honor of thinking of 
her in that way, yet 1 will now frankly admit that I 
should have had no sort of objection to see Eleanor 
become your wife, provided she were satisfied, 
(she added with a smile,) but — she stopped 

and shook her head. 

“I hope you do not mean to say, my dear ma- 
dam,” said Trelawney anxiously, “ that now there 
is no hope V 

“ I did not say so. Sir James ! but I much fear 
that I might have said it. Even if I were disposed 
to consent, I am almost sure that I^Ir. Ousely never 
would You surely have not now to learn that he 


LIFE IN GALW AY. 


335 


abhors the Church of Rome and — I had almost 
said- -all who belong to it.” 

Eleanor had turnei away and pretended to be 
very much engrossed by something which she saw 
through the window. 

“ Eleanor, my dear !” said her mother, “ come 
here !” She turned, and her face was so pale that 
it startled her mother, who hastily arose and went 
over to her. “ What is the matter, my dearest 
child ?” she said tenderly. “ What have I said to 
affect you so 

“ My dear mother !” she said in a tremulous 
voice, “ it was merely a sudden faintness that came 
over me — I am quite well now.” And her blushing 
cheek confirmed the assertion. Trelawney ap- 
proached, and took her hand, which she made no 
effort to withdraw. Mrs. Ousel y looked from one 
to the other, and then she sighed deeply. 

“ Miss Ousely — Eleanor !” said Trelawney ; “ I 
now ask you, in your mother’s presence — may I 
still hope 1” 

Before Eleanor answered, she glanced at her 
mother, and notwithstanding the unusual gravity of 
her features, she saw that there was a smile lurking 
around her lips. She raised her eyes to Trelaw- 
ney’s face, and said, with a smile so radiant that of 
itself it might have inspired hope : 

“ Hope on, hope ever 1” Then disengaging hei 
hand, she said : 


536 


NEW lights; or, 


“ My dear mother ! I leave you and Sir James 
iUe-a-tete now, for I must go and see how my father 
is doing.” 

“ There’s an old woman out here wanting to see 
you, Miss Ousely !” said John, putting in his head. 

“ Do you know who she is, John 

“ Why, then, to be sure I do, Miss — it’s granny 
Mulligan — sorra one else !” 

“ Oh, indeed !” said Eleanor ; then, turning to 
Sir James, she asked if he had ever seen granny 
Mulligan. 

“ Yes, I saw her, if you remember, beside the 
death-bed of Mrs. O’Daly, but from all that I have 
since heard of her, I should like to see something 
of her.” 

“ May I have her introduced, mother ?” said 
Eleanor; her mother smiled assent, whereupon 
granny Mulligan was ushered in, much to her own 
surprise ; “ for,” as she used to say, when telling 
the story, “ it was the first time ever myself was 
in a parlor — an’ for the matter o’ that, the last 
time toc'.” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


597 


CHAPTER XV. 


The cubless tij^ress in her jungje rangiig, 

Is dreadful to the shepherd and his' fleck ; 

The ocean, when its yeasty war is raging, 

Is awful to the vessel near the rock ; 

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging 

Than the stern, deep and wordless ire 

Of a strong human heart. Bvrow. 

When granny Mulligan entered the room, she 
threw back the hood of her red cloak, and looked 
around with as much ease and self-possession as 
though she were in Phil Maguire’s kitchen. 

“ Your sarvint, ladies !” said she, nodding almost 
familiarly. “ Your sarvint, sir !” to the baronet, 
who stood looking at her with a pleased smile on 
his handsome features. “ Miss Eleanor, dear, I 
wanted to spake to yourself in private, but they 
tell me you ordhered me in here. I ax your par- 
don for inakin’ so free,^but you see it isn’t my 
faufc !” 

Cej^inlv not, granny ! and you are very wel- 
come to come in. Will you take a seat V’ 

“ Oh »o, Miss, thanks to you, I eouldn’t think of 
sittin’ down in this room- — maybe the misthress 
isn’t plased with me for domin’ in here ] ’ 

29 


S38 


NEW lights; or 


Mrs. Ousely smiled, and said in her quiet way : 

“Don’t mind me, my good woman! — say w'hat 
you want to say to my daughter 1” 

“ Well, granny, and what is your business with 
me ?” asked Eleanor, in her kindest tones. 

“ Well, I’ll just tell you that^ Miss. I came up 
here a purpose to ask you if you b’lieve this black 
lie* against poor Owen I’m tould the poor inno- 
cent houchal ’s in jail for firin’ at your father — may 
they never — but I mustn’t pray prayers on them, 
bad as they are ! Now I wasn’t about the place 
when they came to take the poor boy, or may I 
never do an ill turn, but I’d have given them a 
mark that they’d carry for a W’hile~but when I 
came back that’s the news they had for me, inagh! 
that Owen was lyin’ in Galw^ay jail ! — Och 1 then 
musha, musha! what’ll this world come to at all at. 
all, when the likes of Owen O’Daly is taken an’ 
elapped into jail for no raison at all. Miss Elea- 
nor ! I ask you again do you b’lieve that he’s 
guilty 1” She strode up close to Eleanor, and 
looked up in her face as though she w'ould there 
read the answer. 

“ No, granny,” said Eleanor gravely, “ I do nol 
believe him guilty '1” 

“ Then wdiat’s the raison that you didn’t spake 
up for himl” exclaimed the excited old woman. 

^ Tell me that now ! — you could have saved the 
amily this last blow, an’ you didn’t do it.” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


339 


“Granny Mulligan, you wrong me!” replied 
Eleanor solemnly, “ I did do my utmost, but my 
father was positive that Owen fired the shot, and 
]Mr. O’Hagarty, who was with him, did not contra- 
dict him — what could I do ? — God knows I did all 
I could !” 

The old woman was about to answer, when the 
door was thrown open, and the servant announced 
the Reverend Mr. O’Hagarty, the Reverend Mr. 
Henderson, and the Reverend Captain Wilson. 
Sir James, as they entered, drew back into the 
recess of a window, but kept his eye on the beg- 
garwoman, anxious to see how she would acquit 
herself. Eleanor made a sign to her to leave the 
room, which she was in the act of doing when the 
captain caught a glimpse of her face under the 
hood which was now again over her head. 

“ Eh ! how is this I” he cried ; “ stop there, good 
woman ! — are not you the old lady who refused to 
go into the poor-house 

“ Anan ?” said granny, becoming deaf all of a 
sudden. 

“ I say, aren’t you old granny Mulligan f’ re- 
peated Wilson, in a louder voice. 

“ I am !” replied granny, facing him ; “ bfit you 
needn’t spake as if you were in a mill, captain ! — 
I’m not so deaf as all that comes to I” 

Eleanor and Trelawney exchanged a merr;/ 


340 


NEW lights; or 


glance behind backs, and even Mrs. Ouselj smiled 
at the old woman’s coolness. 

“ Don’t be impudent, woman !” said Henderson. 
“ Remember who it is that speaks to you.” 

“ Oh, of coorse !” said granny, in an ironical 
tone ; “ I’ll not forget that 

“ And pray what was your reason for refusing *?” 
said Wilson. 

“ My raison !” said granny ; “ Oh, bedad, I had 
more than one raison !” 

“ Come ! come ! no quibbling !” said Hender- 
ion ; “ answer the question put to you !” 

“ I was jist goin’ to do it, if you hadn’t stopped me. 
In the first place, I’d rather have my liberty than 
be shut up in a prison, especially as I never done 
anything to desarve it. Another raison is, that 
I’m too fond of my belly to put myself in the way 
of bein’ starved ; an’ last of all, I’m tould there’s 
the divil to pay about religion in the poor-houses ; 
so, bedad, captain dear ! I thought I had best stay 
out, more betoken that the people made me wel- 
come to a share of what little they had — the Lord 
reward them for it !” 

“ But do you not know, my good woman *?” said 
Henderson, in a magisterial tone, “ tliat begging is 
now against the law 

“ Agin what law, Misther Henderson ?” said th^ 
old woman, wdth an air of great simplicity. 

“ Why, against the la\t of the laud, to be sure !’' 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


341 


“ Oh ! if it’s only that, j our honor, we’ll get 
over it — I was afeard you might have got some 
new laws from above,” pointing upwards with her 
finger ; “ I know well enough that it’s against the 
law to be poor now-a-days, for if it wasn’t, sure 
there wouldn’t be jails all over the counthry, for 
starvin’ the life out o’ the poor.” 

“ How dare you speak so to me, you wretched 
woman*?” cried Henderson, waxing wroth; “you 
know full well that no one is imprisoned without 
having committed some crime !” 

“ To be sure I do, your honor, I know it well 
enough — sure there’s not one put into the jails. I 
inane, without bein’ guilty of ‘poverty^ an’ most o’ them 
of another crime, that’s even worse than that — • 
Popery. Popery an’ poverty, your honor. Popery 
an’ starvation — them’s the crimes that fills the 
poorhouses.” 

Trelawney drew farther back into the deep em- 
brasure of the window, lest the reverend gentlemen 
should see him laughing, while Eleanor affected to 
be very busy indeed, assorting some silk in her 
work-box. 

“ Well, your honors,” said granny, as she ga- 
thered her red cloak around her, “ I’m for goin’ 
now, if it’s plasin’ to the company — bedad, it’a 
quare company for granny Mulligan !” she said in 
ftn undertone, as if to herself. 

“ Do you know this gentleman ?” said the rev 

29 * 


342 


NEW lights; or, 


erend captain, pointing with an air of triumph to 
O’Hagarty. The latter gentleman winced beneath 
the keen and scarcliing glance of the old woman. 

“ Do I know him, is it? ay, indeed do I, jist as 
well as I want to know him.” 

% “ He was once a Romish priest, and if you 
would only listen to him for a little while, he 
would convince you, obstinate as you are !” 

“ Oh ! may the Lord in heaven forbid that I’d 
listen to him !” cried granny, with the utmost fer- 
vor. “ Sweet Lord J esus, stand between me an’ 
him !” and she crossed herself devoutly. 

“ I’ll tell you what, now, my old hare !” began 
O’Hagarty, his face flaming with anger, “ I’ll — ” ^ 

“Don’t spake to me !” cried granny, hurrying 
to the door ; “ don’t. I’ll listen to any one, sooner 
than you — your breath’s unlucky, so it is !” and 
pulling the door open, she darted out into the 
passage, nor stopped till she got outside on the 
lawn. Mrs. Ousely and her daughter both laughed 
heartily, and Sir James, stepping forth from his 
hiding-place, saluted the three gentlemen with 
forced gravity. The two sanctimonious ministers 
could not refrain from smiling, but O’Hagarty 
looked as black as midnight, and taking out his 
snuff-box, gave it a furious tap on the lid, as though 
there were some vague connexion in his mind be. 
tween it aud granny Mulligan. 

“ I think you caugllt a Tartar, just now, Mr 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


343 


O’llagarty !” observed Trelawney, with as much 
composure as he could command. “ The old 
woman seems to have no soi t of reverence for 
your priestly character.” 

“ Confound her for an old hag, I’ll make her have 
reverence, or at least fear, some of these days, if 
she comes within reach of my horsewhip.” 

“ For shame, reverend brother !” said Hender 
son, in his deep nasal twang, “ why do you speak 
so uncharitably — the whip is not a proper argu- 
ment — ” 

“ It’s the only one for the like of her !” returned 
O’PIagarty ; “ I tell you there’s no use talking to 
these people ; fill their bellies when they want it, 
and lash them like hounds when they’re refractory, 
that’s the only w^ay.” 

“ Just niy idea,” remarked Wilson ; “ these 
Papists are to be treated as were the Amalekites 
and Moabites of old — they harden their hearts 
against the Gospel, and scoff at the ministers of 
the Lord ; therefore, I say, they deserve no mercy 
— but I beg your pardon, sir !” he said, turning 
suddenly to Sir James, who was standing talking 
to Mrs. Ousely. 1 forgot that you were present, 
else 1 should not have expressed my opinion so 
freely.” 

Trelawney affected not to notice the insulting 
tone in which this was spoken, but he said with a 
bland smile . “ Pray make no apology, my good 


344 


NEW lights; or, 


sir ! your words are very consoling to me, I assure 
you.” 

“Consoling! — how is that*?” cried Wilson, in 
surprise, for he certainly meant them to produce a 
far different effect. 

“ Why, they are truly consoling, inasmuch as 
they serve to convince me more and more of the 
infinite difference between religion and hypocrisy — 
between charity and cant — between the religion I 
have embraced, and the broken cistern I have re- 
jected, Ladies, I must wish you good morning — 
gentlemen ! your humble servant 1” To Eleanor 
he said in a low voice, as he passed her : “ Adieu, 
an revoirP 

“ What a supercilious puppy he is 1” said O’Ha- 
garty, coming to the support of his crest-fallen 
friend. 

“ Pardon me, Mr. O’llagarty 1” said Mrs. Ouse- 
ly ; “ / see nothing puppyish or supercilious about 
the young man. I think him, on the contrary, by 
much the most finished gentleman I know.” 

“ You must excuse my reverend brother, ma- 
dam,” observed Henderson ; “ his hatred ol 

Popery sometimes carries him a little too far.” 

“ So I perceive,” said Mrs. Ousely drily, and 
then the conversation dropped. The gentlemen 
soon after took their leave, much to Eleanor’s satis- 
faction, as she felt anxious to go to her father 


LIFE IN G ALWAl . 


34S 


whose patience was likely to be exhausted by that 
time. 

About a week after, when Ousely was quite re- 
covered, his daughter took him into the front parlor 
one morning, telling him that she had something 
mportant to communicate. 

‘^Well, Eleanor! what’s in the wind nowf* 
said he, as he established his rotund person in a 
cushioned arm-chair. 

“ My dear father !” said Eleanor, sitting down 
on an ottoman at his knee, “ I have been requested 
to let you know that there is strong presumptive 
evidence — nay, more than presumptive — in favor 
of Owen O’Daiy.” 

“ And what the devil have 1 to do with their 
evidence cried Ousely. “ What business have 
they sending me word about it? I know very well 
that the Papists are good at getting up plots, but 
vhat have I to do with them ? The fellow’s in jail- 
tbr an attempt at murder — do you or do they expect 
me to interfere and get him out? Tell me that 
uow, Nell !” 

He spoke ironically, but Eleanor was no way 
discouraged. “ And even if you did, my dear 
father, it would be greatly to your credit. If 
what the people say be true, I don’t see how you 
can get over it 1” 

“ And pray what do the people say ?” 


S46 


NEW lights; or, 


“ Thej say — now don’t be angry, father ! that it 
was not Owen O’Daly who fired at you.” 

“Indeed!” said her father ironically; “ and do 
they say who it was, then 

“ Yes, father, there’s a rumor afloat that it 'was 
one of those unfoTtunate Bally regan men who were 
evicted some weeks ago. There was one of them 
whose wife died on the road-side, you may re- 
member.” 

“ Confound them ! didn’t that fellow — I know 
who you mean — take himself off somewhere — he 
never showed his fiice here since. An unlucky 
villain he w'as, too, for I lost the Clifden races by 
him, and after all, his things weren’t worth ten 
shillings, the whole lock, stock, and barrel — he’d 
do it with a heart and a half, I know, if he was in 
the country.” 

“Well, father, he was in the country — it seems 
the unfortunate man was down somewhere near 
Loughrea with a brother of his, ever since his poor 
wife’s death, but he w'as observed lurking around 
on the very evening that you were fired at, and has 
not since been seen or heard of.” 

“The hang-dog ruffian!” cried Ousely ; “I sup- 
pose he took good care to make himself scarce 
when he done the job — that is, if he did do it— 

out as we haven’t Am, we’ll keep O’Daly, by ^ 

to see whether JieHl be bagged or not — whichever 
of them done it, they’re both well inclined — by the 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


34t 


Lord Harry ! Nell Ousely, it’s as likely as not 
that they both had a hand in it — there was murdei 
in that scoundrel O’Daly’s face on the day of the 
ejectment !” 

“But, my dear father!” said Eleanor mildly; 
“you said yourself, and so did Mr. O’Hagarty, 
that there was but one man seen on that occa- 
sion I” 

“ Ay, but there might have been others still be- 
hind the hedge — we said there was only one who 
ran away, but there might have been many more, 
you know, Nell ! who kept their ground.” 

“Well! well!” said Eleanor, “I see there is 
nothing to be gained by talking, so, with your leave, 
my dear father, we ’ll dismiss the subject for the 
present !” ' 

Early in the afternoon Mr. Dixon rode up to the 
.Hall, and after congratulating Mr. Ousely on his 
restored health, he said with a smile : 

“ My visit is not altogether one of friendship 
just now — it is partly on business, Ousely.” 

“ Hang it, let us hear your business first, then !” 
cried Ousely, “ so as to get it out of the way. Go 
into it, man, at once !” 

“ It appears,” said Mr. Dixon, “ that this lad 
0‘Daly is innocent, after all, and, upon my honor, 
Ousely, I’m glad of it, for I had a great respect 
for that family, as fiir as I knew them, and was 
shocked to hear of any of them turning out so.” 


348 


NEW LIGHTS^ OR, 


“ And did you take the trouble of coming so 
fir to tell me so 1” said Ousely, abruptly. “ You 
might have saved yourself tlie trouble, for my 
daughter Nell was beforehand with you. I don‘t 

care a d n what the people say — let the law 

take its course !” 

“ But I have something more than hearsay to 
communicate, if you will only listen,” replied 
Dixon, calmly. 

“ You have, eh ? and what may it be 

Eleanor, who was present, laid down her work 
to listen, and Mr. Dixon, after putting on his 
spectacles, and taking a pinch of Lundy Foot^ drew 
a letter from his pocket, and commenced reading 
as follows : 


“Liverpool, October 29th, 18 — . 

“ Your honor, Mister Dixon, as I often found you a 
good friend, the Lord reward you, I make free now 
to trouble you, hoping that you will excuse the 
liberty I take. You know as well as I do, ho- 
nored sir, that I was put out of my little place by 
Mister Ousely some time back, and that my poor 
wife, God be good to her ! died under a shed that 
1 put over her in her sickness, to keep off some of 
the rain — she died there, sir, and left me, with four 
small children, without one to do a hand’s turn for 
them — without a bit or a sup, except th« cold wa- 
ter, and without a penny in my pocket. There’s 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


349 


no use in troubling you with a long story, sir, so 
I’ll say nothing of the state of mind I was in, nor 
of the hunger, and cold, and nakedness myself and 
the children were in after poor Ally’s death — that’s 
not the thing that’s on my mind now, youi honor, 
so I’ll pass it over. To tell the truth, I was bitter 
enough again Mister Ousely, when I seen poor 
Ally lying dead there on the road-side, and maybe 
it was well for him that he didn’t come across mo 
then. But, with the blessing of God, I got the 
better of the devil that time, and went to my duty, 
and got quite reconciled to bear everything with pa- 
tience. There’s a brother of mine that lives dowm 
towards Loughrea, and he sent me word that if I’d 
go to him, he could give me a shelter for -a little 
while, till times got better, only that I must try 
and get the children into the poorhouse. Your 
honor w^as good enough to apply yourself and get 
them taken in, and so I went off to my, brother’s, 
thinking that it was all right. Well, Mister Dixon, 
I wasn’t long away, till I heard that the guardians 
were wanting the children to go to the Prodestan’ 
Church belonging to the poorhouse. With that, I 
came up all the way to see the children, and to 
warn them against these that wanted to ruin their 
«ouls, and, sure enough, the poor things promised 
me that they wouldn’t, on any account, go to the 
Prodestan’ meetin’. So I went my ways home, 
but wasn’t long settled there, till I heard that they 


350 


NEW LI GHTS ; OR, 


were forcin’ the children to go to their Cliurch— J 
Ciirae up again, sir, and got to the pocrhouse on 
the very day that there was a meetin’ of the 
Board. Of course, I couldn’t get in to know what 
was goin’ on, so I waited on the road abroad till 
the meetin’ was over, an’ from where I was, out- 
side the wall, I could hear the scrames of my poor 
Johnny and Biddy — them’s the two eldest, sir, and 
I knew that they were batin’ them bekase they 
wouldn’t consent to go to Church. Mister Dixon, 
i’ll not bother you with tellin’ you how my blood 
boiled, or what black thoughts was passin’ through 
my mind, but at last the doors were thrown open, 
and the guardians — och, but they’re the quare 
guardians of the poor! — came sfeppin’ out, and 
myself had to step aside out of their way, but I 
heard them talkin’ as they passed by where I was 
hid, and I found that it was Mister Ousely that 
was the head of them all, and that it w^as him that 
was hardest upon the children in regard of religion. 
Last of all, I found out that it was him that ordered 
the cratures to be flogged^ bekase they w^ouldn’t go 
to Church. Oh, your honor, when I heard that^ 
and remembered how it was him that in a manner 
murdered my poor Ally, and drove the little ones 
into the poorhouse, and then wanted to whip their 
religion out of them, and rob them of the char ce 
of goin’ to heaven, I declare to you, honored sir, 
my brain get jist as if it was all on fire, and 1 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


361 


iwore that before many hours passed Id be re- 
venged. The Lord forgive me ! I know I was 
wrong ; but then I couldn’t help it, for it seemed 
as if I 7nust do something, and I did, your honor ! 
I borrowed a pistol from a friend of my own, and J 
watched for Ousely all day, till at last I got a 
chance, and I fired at him. Thank God, he w^asn’t 
killed, though then I intended nothin’ else ; but 
my hand trembled, and the ball didn’t strike where 
I thought it would, and so he escaped lAat time. 
J^Tow I’m glad of it ; when the passion, or the mad- 
ness, or whatever it was, cooled down, I thanked 
my God that I hadn’t taken his life, though I know 
my sin was all the same. But what I trouble you 
for now, Mr. Dixon, is bekase I was tould that poor 
Owen O’Daly was taken up for what I had done, 
and as soon as I got my brother to lend me what 
W'ould take me to America, I thought I’d write to 
you, sir, hopin’ that you, bein’ a magistrate, would 
set matters right. Of course I couldn’t do it till 
I got here, but now the vessel’s to sail in two 
hours, and then I’ll be out of reach. Now, honor- 
ed sir, I have tould you the wdiole truth, just as if 
I w'as goin’ to face my God — I acknowledge myself 
guilty of this crime, and I ask God’s pardon for it, 
but I ofiii’t rest so long as that poor innocent boy 
is in d-iiiger, or suspected of doin’ what he never 
done, or never knew anything about. God bless 
you, Mister Dixon, and exert yourself for him* 


552 


E W LIGHTS ; OK, 


and another thing I want to ask you. sir, for I 
know you’re always willin’ to do a good turn. 
Maybe you’d have the go')dness to interfere few 
my poor children, and see that they don’t perse- 
cute them for their religion. That’s all the poor 
things have, and they may surely let them keep it. 
As soon as I’m able, I’ll send for them, with 
God’s help. Don’t forget to do what you can for 
poor O’Daly, your honor, and if a poor sinner 
like me can be heard. I’ll never forget you in my 
prayers. I remain, honored sir, 

“ Your most obedient and grateful servant, 
“Darby Whelan.” 

During the time that Mr. Dixon was reading 
this epistle, Mr. Ousely made various exclama- 
tions, indicative of the various emotions to which 
it gave rise. Eleanor had kept an anxious eye on 
his movements, and saw that, just as she had ex- 
pected, he was exasperated beyond measure. He 
could scarcely wait to hear the end till he struck 
his clenched fist on the arm of the chair, and ex- 
claimed with the utmost vehemence : 

“ Darby Whelan may go be d d, then, and 

every one that takes his part. D’ye hear that 
now, Dixon 

“ I do,” replied Dixon, coolly ^md somewhat 
drily, “ but I have no mind to put on the cap, for 
it certainlj does not fit me. / ta^e no part with 


LIJE IN GALWAY. 3S8 

this unfortunate Darby Whelan (though I must say 
that I never knew anything bad of him till this 
happened), but as your friend, Ousely, and the 
friend of justice, I come to have a talk with you on 
this subject. Miss Ousely, what do you think of 
all this ? I know,” he added with a kindly smile, 
“ I know that you are never indifferent to the woes 
and sufferings of your fellow-creatures !” 

“ What’s the use of asking her then V said 
Ousely snappishly; “you know very well that 
Nell is always one of the ‘friends of humanity, 
as the old song says. Come to the point at once, 
and let us hear what you expect from me.” 

Eleanor smiled, and nodded for Mr. Dixon to gc 
on. “ Well ! Ousely,” said he, “Fll tell you can 
didly what I think you should do. You should en- 
deavor to get this young man liberated as soon ai 
possible” — 

“I’d see you and he — at Jericho first!” cried 
Ousely, interrupting him ; “ let the law take its 
course — that’s all I say 1” 

“ In that case,” said Mr. Dixon, standing up, “it 
would bo useless for me to insist farther. I am 
sorry for this, Mr. Ousely, even on your own ac- 
count, for I cannot forget ‘ auld acquaintance,’ 
though there are many now-a-days who take plea- 
sure in doing so. Eleanor, my dear girl I good 
bye !” He held out his hand, but instead of taking 
it, Eleanor turno 1 to her father, and begged him to 

S''# 


S64 


NEW LIGli'TS; OR, 


think over the matter, before re gave Mr. Dixon 
such a flat refusal. 

“ I tell you I won’t — mind your own business, 
Eleanor ! — I don’t thank any one for meddling with 
mine. You can all make a great rout abou* 
such fellows as Owen O’Daly and Darby Whelan, 
oh, certainly ! they’re not to be sneezed at, but 
Harrington Ousely may be shot like a dog from 
behind a fence, and even his own daughter has no 
sympathy for him — no resentment for the cowardly 

ruffian that did it. But, by ,” he swore an 

oath that made Eleanor shudder, “ I’ll send one of 
the rascals over the herring-brook, at least — curses 
on the villain ! hanging would be too good for 
either of them ! — the bloody Papist cut-throats !” 

It was by a great effort that Eleanor maintained 
her composure while shaking hands with Mr. 
Dixon, who seeing her distress and confusion, said 
in a kind tone ; 

“ Good bye, my dear ! good bye. I hope your 
father will soon come to his senses — if he goes on 
in this way, the end of it will be the mad-house, 
take my word for it — that is, if some other perse- 
cuted creature do not take surer aim than Darby 
Whelan, which may God forbid. Give my best 
respects to your mother, Eleanor — it will be many 
n day before you see me in Ousely Hall again !-— 
mver t xcept that man apologizes for his conduct 


LIFE IN GALWAY.- 


355 


and comes himself to ask me !” So saying, ho 
left the room and the house. 

“ Go you after him !” said Ousely, taking his 
daughter by the shoulder and thrusting her outside 
the door, which he slammed after her with a force 
that made the floor quiver. Eleanor’s heart was 
like to break : it was the first time that ever she 
had received such treatment from her father, and 
she, could scarcely persuade herself that the whole 
scene was not a dream. But alas ! it was stern 
reality, and with all her filial affection, she could 
not help being ashamed of her father. Unwilling 
to tell her mother of what had happened, lest it 
might inflict a new wound on her already lacerated 
heart, she shut herself up in the privacy of her 
c»wn apartment until she had obtained sufficient 
composure to meet her mother without any out- 
ward signs of agitation. Happy was it for her in 
that hour of trial that the light of true religion had 
already dawned upon her mind. 

Mr. Dixon was pursuing his homeward way at 
a pretty brisk pace, when, just as he reached the 
cross-roads where he had to turn off the highway, 
he discovered that his horse had lost a shoe, and 
was already somewhat lame. Fortunately, there 
was a forge about a hundred yards farther on, so 
he alighted, and led his horse by the bridle. On 
reaching the forge door, he came to a full stand, 
and could hardly refrain from laughing. The 


B66 


NEW lights; or 


blacksmith was hard at work shoeing a horse, 
W'hose owner, a stout, sturdy farmer, was sitting 
on a bench, waiting for the completion of the job. 
By his side was Andrew McGilligan, his thin, 
sharp features clearly defined in the bright glare 
from the fire. He w^as holding forth, with his 
usual circumlocutory eloquence, to the evident 
amusement of his hearers, especially some three 
or four ragged urchins, w’ho were standing in a 
group near the hearth, comforting the outward man 
with the warmth of the blacksmith’s fire, while 
Andrew did his best to do as much for the inner 
man, regaling them with plenteous draughts of 
Scripture, and goodly quotations from various 
tracts, concerning the abominations of Popery, i. e. 
the scarlet woman, together with the manifold and 
exceeding great blessings awaiting those who came 
forth from “ that unclean place,” i. e. the Pomish 
Church. 

“ Thrue for you, Andy dear !” said the farmer, 
with sly humor ; “ it’s enough to make a body’s 
teeth wather, so it is, to look at the fine boilers of 
soup an’ stirabout that you have below there, an’ 
then at the school-house abroad, the beautiful 
throughs that you’re gettin’ there to feed the chil- 
dren, athout any throuble at all to the creatures, 
only to dip down their heads an’ ate away ; throth, 
you may well say that there’s blessins in store foi 
them that laves Popery !” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


36 \ 


Mr re power there, Jack,’^ cried one of the boys, 
and they all laughed heartily. 

“ Well done, Jack!” cried Vulcan, suspending 
his work for a moment, “well done, our side for a 
clane noggin.” 

Andrew scarcely knew whether to take it wel\ 
or ill, but pretending to overlook the bitter irony 
of J ack’s observation, he went on : “ No, my very 
dear friends — I would I might say brethren — I do 
not allude to the things which concern the body, I 
speak of the things which appertain to the spirit ! 
Oh !” said Andrew, in a fit of pious fervor ; “ oh ! it 
you would only take the Bible in your own hands, 
as 1 have it now in mine, and read it even as I do, 
with a great desire to be enlightened, without 
asking leave of priest, or bishop, or pope, oh ! 
dearly beloved friends, but you would soon shake 
off the exceeding heavy yoke wherewith Rome has 
bound you.” 

“Ah, then, Andy dear,” said the comical rogue, 
Jack, “ would you plase to tell us what kind of a 
yoke that is, for the sorra bit o’ we knows, though 
I was bred an’ born in the Cath — ahem, I mane 
in the Church of Rome ! Is it anything like the 
yoke that we put on the horses when they’re 
ploughin’, or maybe it’s something like an ass’s 
straddle, eh?” 

The roar of laughter which rang through the 
forge was re-echo 3d by Mr. Dixon oucs'ie, but his 


558 


NEW lights; or 


laughter was drowned in the more obstreperous 
mirth of the others, while his presence was con- 
cealed by the horse, which stood in the middle of 
the forge. As soon as the laughing had somewhat 
subsided, Andrew spoke again, and as he spoke he 
stood up. “x\h !” said he, in dolorous accents, “ if 
you w'ould only read this blessed book, you would 
soon become meek and docile to the teaching of 
those who would fain raise you from your degrad- 
ed state. This, my friends, this is the book which 
overthrows the mighty power of Popery, and 
tears away the veil that hides its deformity — this 
is the sword w^herewith we fight that monster, and 
cut off his hideous head ! This — ” 

He was suddenly interrupted by the blacksmith, 
who, putting down the horse’s foot from off his 
knee, snatched the volume from Andrew’s hand, 
and saying : “ If that’s the case, we’ll give it warm 
quarters !” he very coolly flung it into the fire. 
Then, taking the horror-stricken Scripture-reader 
by the back of the neck, he gave him a good shake 
and put him out of the forge, telling him, as he 
valued his bones, never to show his face there 
again. By this time, Mr. Dixon had got in by a 
back door, and, as no one spoke to him about what 
had happened, he affected not to have seen it, and, 
telling the blacksmith that the groom should come 
for the hoi se in the course of an hour, he set out 
on foot for his own house. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Think’st thou there is no tyranny but that 

Of blood and chains ? Byron’s Sard^nmpakte. 

But happy they, the happiest of their kind, 

Whom gentle stars unite, and in one fate 

Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings blend 1 

Thomson’s Seasom. 

It was fortunate for Owen O’Daly that Mr. 
Dixon was on the Grand Jury on the day when 
his case was brought before that body. Ousely' 
as the complainant, was, of course, incapacitated 
from sitting,” but he blustered and swore most 
awfully, and did all he could to brow-beat his 
brother jurors into a perfect conformity v/ith his 
own views. O’llagarty was the only witness he 
had to bring forward, and when that worthy gen- 
tleman came to be examined, though it was quite 
evident that he wanted to oblige Mr. Ousely, yet, 
do what he would, he could wot plump it. Ousely, 
indeed, had said that they were both ready to 
swear that it was O’Daly whom they had seen 
running across the field, tha\ is, “to the best of 
their knowledge,” but O’Hagarty was too cunning 
to “ go the whole hog he knew very well that it 


360 


NEW lights; or 


was not O’Daly, and what was more to the pur 
pose, he knew that there was plenty of respectable 
evidence to prove the lad’s innocence, and he said 
to liimself, with his accustomed prudence, “It 
will be an ugly thing if I am found out giving fahe 
evidence — I know this Maguire is a touchy old 
fellow', and has plenty of money to spend, and who 
knows but it’s an action for perjury they’d be 
bringing against me. I’ll tell you what it is, Ber- 
nard O’Idagarty ! you’d best look out for number 
one — everything depends on reputation, and I can’t 
afford to throw away the rag that’s left me — let 
Ousely swear as he likes. I’ll not get myself into 
trouble as long as I can help it.” So out it came, 
on the examination, that he could not swear posi- 
tively. 

“ Oh, indeed !” said Mr. Dixon, who undertook 
to cross-examine the reverend gentleman ; “ You 
cannot sw^ear positively that it w'as O’Daly — now, 
1 ask you, on your sacred oath, Mr. O’lTagarty, 
are you not quite sure that it was not O’Daly 
O’Hagarty looked down and W'as silent. 

“ Answer me, sir,” said Dixon sternly, “ on 
your oath, was it not a much older man 

“ I — I — rather think so.” 

“ Very good — that settles the matter. Gentle, 
men, I have done — does any of you w^ish to cx 
ami le the reverend gentleman V’ Several of them 
did, for the greater number w'erc on Ousely’s side* 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


381 


out the reverend Bernard had the prosecution for 
perjury so constantly before his eyes that there 
w as nothing to be made of him, further than that 
ho had seen Mr. Ousely shot, and had seen a man 
run from behind the hedge, but who the man was 
he could not sa}^. 

The evidence for the defence was then brought 
forward. Phil Maguire and his wife swore posi- 
tively that Owen O’Daly had not left their kitchen 
from four o’clock on the evening in question until 
he was taken ‘ away by the police. The father and 
the two elder sisters of the prisoner were each 
examined, and all agreed so perfectly in every par- 
ticular that there was no getting over such a body 
of evidence, especially w^hen there was nothing con- 
clusive on the opposite side. Last of all Mr. 
Dixon read Darby Whelan’s letter, and corrobo- 
rated many of the statements therein made. This, 
it would seem, was calculated to remove every 
shadow of suspicion from O’Daly, and so Mr. 
Dixon thought, but he reckoned without his host, 
for he had no sooner finished the reading of the 
letter than one of the jurors started to his feet, and 
begged to suggest that the pistol which Whelan 
had borrowed might have been furnished by 
O’Daly, which, if done knowingly, made him an 
accessory in the crime. The suggestion was eagerly 
taken hold of (so true is it that the instincts o* 
Irish landlords are almost invariably against tha 

31 


S63 


NEW lights; or, 


poor man and for the rich man), and Mr. Dixon 
was under the necessity of summoning Phil Ma- 
guire and Kathleen O’Daly, to prove that' Owen 
had never owned a pistol, or indeed, fire-arms of 
any kind. 

“ And now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Dixon, “ it 
appears to me that we have not the shadow of an 
excuse for bringing in a bill of indictment. I 
know that you are all the personal friends of Mr. 
Ousely ; — so am I — but our friendship for him 
ought not to interfere with the administration of 
justice. If the real offender were before us, I 
would be one of the first to agree to the finding of 
the bills, but no rational man in our position can 
shut his eyes to the fact that this poor lad is in no 
way implicated in this crime.” 

The result was that the bills were thrown out, 
and an order was sent to the high sheriff to liberate 
Owen O’Daly. When Ousely was informed of 
the decision of the Grand Jury he was highly 
offended, and swore that Popery was eten getting 
into- the jury-room. But his anger was principally 
directed against DiXon and O’Hagarty, the latter 

of ^\hom he pronounced “a d d old humbug, 

Slid a traitor to boot 1” 

It was Mr. Dixon himself who brought the news 
to the anxious group without. They were sitting 
on a bench in the hall, and when the worthy magis- 
trate appeared on the stairs, they all stood up. 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


363 


The ulJ njaii trembled so that he could not stand 
without the support of Phil’s arm, and it was that 
true-hearted friend that asked Mr. Dixon the ques- 
tion which was hovering on Bernard’s lip. 

“ W ell, Mister Dixon !” said Phil, “ we’re waitin 
on your honor, to see what sort of news you’d 
have for us.” 

“ Good news ! good news !” said Dixon, hrs 
honest face beaming with pleasure, as he reached 
his hand to the old man. “ The bills are thrown 
out, Bernard, and the high sheriff has instructions 
to liberate Owen.” 

Phil and Nanny cried out, “ The Lord in heaven 
be praised !” 

“ An’ next to Him above, Misther Dixon, it’s 
you we may thank for it !” said Phil. 

Bernard could not speak for a moment, but he 
sank on his knees, still holding Mr. Dixon’s hand, 
and the tears burst forth in torrents from his eyes. 
Mr. Dixon would have raised him, but he said : 
“ No, sir — no, your honor ! I’ll not rise till I thank 
you — thank you on my knees for what you’ve 
done for Owen, an’ for us all. You’ve saved my 
gray hairs from what never came on them yet, 
with all our poverty, an’ that’s disgrace. May 
the Lord re'ward you this day an’ forever more, 
an’ may He grant you a happy death an’ a favora- 
ble judgnient. Amen. Now, Phil dear, help me 
up.” Mr. DLxon coughed, and cleared his throat, 


and then said: “ Pooh, pooh, Bernard! I’ve done 
nothing but my duty !” 

Kathleen and Bridget now came forward, and 
tlianked Mr. Dixon for the share he had had in 
effecting Owen’s liberation. “Why, upon my 
honor,” said he, with a benevolent smile, “ I cannot 
understand all this. Do let me aw ay from here, 
for your gratitude is a heavy load to carry. Good 
bye! I shall see that Owen is speedily set at 
liberty.” 

When Ousely reached home after the examina- 
tion, he bolted into the room where his wife and 
daughter were sitting at work, and threw himself 
almost breathless on a seat. 

Well ! my dear, how did the investigation 
go ?” said Mrs. Ousely, in her softest tones, while 
Eleanor glanced sideways at her father without 
speaking. 

“Just as I might have expected,” replied her 
husband ; “ I might have known veiy well what 
was in that stupid load of flesh, O’Hagarty. He’s 
the first converted priest ever I trusted anything 
to, and by the Lord Harry, he’ll be the last. The 
confounded ass shirked out when it came to the 
point, and his evidence wasn’t worth a brass far 
thing — he’s not worth his room in a house — rat 
him ! I don’t believe he’s any more of a Protestant 
than I’m a Papist, only just to seive his purpose, 
the hypocritical knave 1” 


LIFE IN GALWAY 


365 


father,*’ said Eleanor \eiy demurely, 
“ it is only a few weeks since I heard you call him 
‘ the prince of good fellows’— ‘ a merry old soul,’ 
with ever so many other eulogistic epithets.” 

“ Humph !” said her father, gruffly ; “ you heard 
me say more good of him than ever you’ll hear 
me say again, that’s one thing, I can tell you. The 
young vagabond has escaped for this time, thanks 
to O’Hagarty and Allan Dixon ; but if I don’t nab 
him yet, my name’s not Harrington Ousely. 

He’ll not get off like Darby Whelan, by h he 

shall not !” 

Eleanor shuddered, but said nothing. She looked 
at her mother, and was shocked to see her leaning 
back in her chair, ao pale as ashes. Seeing her 
daughter’s consternation, Mrs. Ousely smiled, and 
made a sign to her to take no notice, that she 
would be better soon. 

When the family assembled at dinner, Mrs. 
Ousely handed her husband a letter, which had 
been brought, about half an hour before, by one of 
Mr. Dixon’s servants. Eleanor glanced at the 
letter, as she passed it down to her father, and her 
foce was instantly covered with blushes. Ousely 
was opening the letter without a word, when his 
wife took the precaution of ordering the butler to 
withdraw, knowing that if it contained anything 
unpalatable, there was sure to be an explosion. 
Eleanor kept her eye on her father, and saw tha« 

31 * 


NEW lights; or, 


t > he road his color rose higher and higher, till his 
fa^je was of a scarlet hue, and his eyes glowed 
like living coals. 

“ Eh ? — what 1” he cried, in a thick, husky voice^ 
“ it is only a v/eek or two since he boasted to my 
face of liaving turned Papist, and now he has the 
impudence to propose for my daughter ! By the. 
Lord Harry, Nell, I’d as soon you’d marry the 
devil — the graceless young scamp ! did he dare to 
suppose for a moment that Harrington Ousely 
would let his only child go headlong into the gulf 
of Romanism — I say, Hetty, what do you think 
of that?” 

“Of what, mj dear?” said his wife, as though 
she had no idea of what he meant. 

“Why, of that d d English turn-coat pro- 

posing for our Nell ?” 

“Well, since you have put the question to me, 
I suppose I must answer it. I think that Sir James 
Trelawney, with his high connections, ancrent fam- 
ily, and a rent-roll of fourteen thousand a year, 
is a match for any woman in Ireland. As to his 
person and manners, and moral character, we know 
they are altogether unexceptionable. Of course, 
his going over to Rome is very nnfortunal'e, but 
then — ” 

“ But then ! — zounds, Hetty ! is that the way 
vou take it ! — I tell you if he were a prince of the 
blocMi, instead of what ho is, he shouldn’t marry a 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


3€'> 

child of mine. If he had been always a Pa*pist it 
wouldn’t be half so bad — but a turncoat ! — I say^ 
Nell!” turning short round to his daughter, “it 
can't be possible that you gave him any encourage- 
ment — did you, or did you not 1” 

“ I certainly did, sir 1” replied Eleanor firmly, 
though her cheek was ashy pale. “ I saw in him 
every quality which I could have desired in a hus- 
band, and I had every reason to suppose that both 
you and my mother were favorably disposed to- 
wards him.” 

“ Favorably disposed 1 — to be sure we were be- 
fore he thought fit to join the ranks of Popery ! — 
a fellow that would let himself be drilled and 
tutored by a priest, and hoodwinked out of the use 
of his senses, is no son-in-law for me, and, by 
George I he’s no husband for Eleanor Ousely 1” 

“ But suppose, my dear father,” said Eleanor 
calmly ; “ suppose that his being a Catholic is not 
an insuperable obstacle with me — suppose I saw in 
his recent change of religion no reasonable grounds 
for revoking my consent, previously given — how 
would that be 

“ How would that be he repeated, mimicking 
her tone ; “ why it would be that you might marry 

him, and go to the d 1 if you chose, for me. 

You’d be no longer a daughter of mine — that’s 
how it would be— -if you haven’t a spirit above 


^EW lights; or, 


tC8 

Popery ; I have, and 3^011 ouyht to know that — I do 
spise turn-coats !” 

“ And yet my dear aunt Ormsh}’ is a Catholic P 
said Eleanor mildly ; “ surely you do not despise 
h£rr 

“ I c?o, by H !” cried Ousely ; “ I do despise 

her, and if I saw her Fd spit in her face — the low- 
lived jade ! there’s not a drop of the Ousely blood 
in her, and I suspected as much long ago.” 

“ My dear ! the dinner will be spoiled,” said 
Mrs. Oosely; “you had better drop this subject 
for the present.”. 

“ I won’t drop it, Hetty !” exclaimed her hus- 
band, striking the table with his fist, “ till Eleanor 
does one of two things ; she must either promise 
me to have nothing more to say to this .Trelawney, 
or else acknowledge that she’s a Papist at heart — 
there’s no use in humbug — ^let her be either one 
thing or the other !” 

Mrs. Ousely looked distressed, but Eleanor was 
perfectly calm and collected.’ She was not deceived 
by her father’s coolness, unusual as it was with 
him : she knew that it proceeded from a fixed and 
settled purpose, and was merely assumed to draw 
out her real sentiments. But she quailed not be- 
fore the storm ; she felt that the time for conceal- 
ment had passed away, and that prevarication wa 
no longer possible. Breathing an inward pra3^ef 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


for strength in this great trial, she said in a finu 
vcice : 

“ I accept the alternative, father ! — for I am sen- 
sible that the time for my confession of faith has 
come. I, too, am a Catholic — in heart and soul 
a Catholic !” 

Mrs., Ousely screamed, and clasped her hands 
with ai instinctive fear for her daughter; the hot 
blood rushed to Ousely ’s face — his eyes flashed — 
his very lips trembled with passion, and his fingers 
worked convulsively ; for some minutes, he sat 
glaring on his daughter in ominous silence — then 
his lips began to move, as though he were about to 
speak, b-ut before he could get out a word, Eleanor 
came round the table, and knelt at his feet, saying : 

“ Father — dear father ! I am truly grieved for 
having provoked your anger, but consider that the 
interest of my immortal soul was at stake, and 
then you icnll nof^^ — cannot blame me ! — Forgive 
me, my dear, dear father, and I will never marry 
any one without your consent !” 

Her mother, too, besought him not to be too 
liard on Eleanor. “ You know, my dear !” said 
she, coming forward and laying her hand on his 
shoulder; “you know that this is a matter in 
which we have no right to interfere !” 

“ Don’t talk to me about interfering, Hetty !” 
exclain'.ed her husband; “ why shouldn’t I inter- 
fere '? Isn’t it the greatest disgrace that ever came 


NEW lights; or, 


51 a 

across me ? — Here have I been these five years 
doing all I could to banish Popery from this neigh* 
borhood, and then to see my own daughter em- 
bracing its nonsensical tenets — d — n it ! Hetty ! — - 
it’s a burning shame, and I won't forgive her — no, 

by H , I never will ! — get up out of that, girl ! 

and go to your room — don’t leave it, either, till I 
order you !” 

“ I obey you, father !” said Eleanor, rising ; 
“ but remember tyranny may be carried so fiir 
that disobedience may become lawful ! — justice 
and conscience are on my side — I leave you to 
consider wliat is on yours /” So saying, she walked 
quietly out of the room. Just as she had expected, 
her father was bewildered : he could not, by any 
means, understand the cool determination with 
which she spoke, and long after she had lefc the 
room, he sat staring at his wife, and she at him, 
in silent amazement. 

“ By the Lord Harry, Hetty !” said he at length, 
“ that girl is a riddle that I can’t make out. Why, 
sbe speaks wfith as much composure as though 
nothing w'ere the matter. Do you really think 
she would go off without my leave to England 

“ I should not be at all surprised,” replied his 
wife, desirous of making the most of his fears. 
“ You know that Eleanor has a strength of mind 
that shrinks from no danger, and if she is oncM^ 
ecnvinced that it is her duty to oppose your will, 


LIFE IN GALWAY. ' 371 

she will do it at all hazards. She has been long 
wishing to accept her aunt’s invitation, and now 
that she has made up her mind to become a Catho- 
lic, as her aunt has already done, I think she will 
go to her, if you persist in your present course. 
Tiien if she goes to England, she will, of course, 
marry Trelawney with her aunt’s sanction. Oh, 
Harrington ! think of it, I implore you ; leave me 
not a childless mother — if you drive Eleanor from 
me, you will kill me outright !” The tears which 
fell profusely from her eyes touched Ousely’s 
heart, hard as it sometimes w^as. 

“ Confound it, Hetty !” said he, quickly, “ don’t 
you know it would be just as hard on myself to 
part with Nell ; but what can I do — tell me that, 
now ! How could I have the face to speak a word 
against Popery, when every one knew that my 
own daughter w^as a Papist, — hang it ! if she’d 
only keep it to herself, and not disgrace me before 
the public !” 

“ But that she could not do, my dear,” said his 
wife mildly ; “ if she be a Catholic at all, she will 
be one openly and aboveboard — you could expect 
nothing else from Eleanor. But now tell me can- 
didly, Harrington, are you afraid that she cannot 
save her soul in the Church of Rome ?” 

“I’m afraid of no such thing!” he replied, 
shortly ; “ of course she can save her soul In it—' 
why not 1 That’s not the trouble, at all !” 


312 


NEW lights; or. 


Mrs. Ousely was silent. She was thinking of 
all the hard names she had so often heard her hus- 
band apply to the Church of Rome, and she could 
not help saying : “ Bless my soul, then, if that be 
the case, what is the use of our missions 1 Why 
spend such vast sums of money in endeavoring to 
convert the Papists, if they can be saved as they 
are V’ 

“ Hold your silly tongue, Hetty ! you don’t 
know what you’re saying !” was the polite and 
most conclusive reply of Mr. Ousely, as he drew 
over to the table, and arranging his napkin, began 
to carve a magnificent goose which lay before him. 
Mrs. Ousely proposed sending up for Eleanor, but 
he laid his commands on her to do no such thing, 
alleging that there was nothing better for refractory 
people than solitary confinement. “ Let her stay 
till she cools,” said he, “ perhaps she’ll be a little 
more reasonable the next time I see her.” His wife 
shook her head, but said no more on the subject. 

When Eleanor reached her dressing-room, she 
sat down and wrote a note to Eather O’Driscoll, 
of which the following is a copy. 

“ Reverend and Dear Sir : 

“ I this day informed my father and mother of my 
having become a Catholic. My dear mother is 
not displeased with me — this I can see, though 1 
have since liad no private conversation with her 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


m 


but. iny father is fully as much incensed against me 
as I had expected. He will not hear of my mar 
rying Sir J ames Trclawney, because of his aposta- 
cy, as he chooses to consider it, though he admits 
that, in every other respect, he is just the man 
whom he would have chosen for me. Now, rever- 
end sir, what I wish to ask you is this. Am I, or 
am I not, justified in giving my hand where my 
heart is long since given, and with the sanction of 
my dear, my excellent mother, in case my father 
is still obstinate in refusing, on the plea of religion ? 
1 shall leave the matter to your decision, as my 
spiritual guide- and director.” 

In the course of the evening, she received the 
answer. Father O’Driscoll said that it was her 
duty to use every possible means, in order to ob- 
tain her father’s consent ; but that, in case he still 
held out, she was no longer bound to obey him, 
inasmuch as he forfeited the rights of a parent by 
endeavoring to coerce the conscience of his child. 
In that case, she must rest satisfied with her mo- 
ther’s approbation, and leave the rest to God, who, 
in his own good time, would move the heart ot 
her father. 

Eleanor communicated this to her mother, who 
was greatly distressed. She could not blame her 
daughter, nor yet Father O’Driscoll, but still she 
shrank from the prospect of losing that ^beloved 


374 


NEW LI 311X8 ; OR, 


child, who was indeed “ all the world to her.” She 
made a last effort to persuade her husband, but 
he w'as even more obstinate than before, and cut 
her short by declaring, with a tremendous oatli, 
that he’d sooner see Eleanor Ousel y in her grave, 
than see her marry a Papist — “ though the hussy 
had the confounded impudence to tell me she wius 
one herself. Let them go to blazes, and get mar- 
ried if they like^ but they’ll never be married with 
my consent 

There was an emphasis laid on certain words in 
this sentence, which suggested a new train of ideas 
to Mrs. Ousely’s mind, and though her husband 
looked as fierce as he could w’ell do when he ut- 
tered these words, yet, in the course of ten minutes 
after, the good lady stole into her daugnter’s room 
and whispered : “ Eleanor, my dear ! you may 
appoint an early day ; you have my consent, and 
my blessing, and that is all you want just now.” 

Eleanor looked inquiringly at her mother, but 
the latter put her finger on her lips, and merely 
said : “ You must arrange it all with the Dixons — 
it is to be a private afiliir, you know — unknown to 
us!” 

But, niother,” said Eleanor in a tremulous 
voice, “ how can I leave you ? — what would you do 
w ithout your Eleanor 

“ Ne\er mind me, Eleanor ! think only of your- 
self at prese t. Hereafter we can easily manage 


LIFE INGA LWAY. 


stfi 

CO be together most of our time, either here or in 
your English home ! — Go, my child — my beloved 
child — go, and God’s blessing be with you !” 

“ Why, mother,” said Eleanor with a faint smile, 
“ that is just what a Catholic mother would say !” 

“ It is the natural outpouring of the mother’s 
anxious love, Eleanor !” 

Eleanor kissed her mother’s forehead, and went 
in silence to answer a note which she had that 
morning received from Trelawney, and as she 
went, she said to herself : — “ Yes — it is even so — ■ 
the spirit of religion — the living, actuating spirit is 
essentially Catholic — whatever devotion, or genuine 
piety is still to be found amongst Protestants, can 
be clearly traced to a Catholic basis. Thanks be 
to God that he whom I have, chosen for the partner 
of my future life has already sought and found the 
fulness of truth !” 

On the second morning after this, Eleanor 
Ousely stole softly down stairs in the grey of the 
moniing, and thought to have passed out unnoticed 
by any one. She had taken leave of her mother 
over-night, and was not aware that any other in the 
house susi^ected what was going on. To her great 
surprise, she found the servants assembled in the 
hall, to wish her “ good luck,” as they said them 
selves. They spoke in low, earnest whispers, and 
Eleanor, notwithstanding her surprise, was moved 
even to tears. She hastily shook hands with each, 


176 


NEW lights; or 


and clinrgcd them to say nothing of having seen 
her. 

“ Oh, never fear, Miss Eleanor ! never fear !” 
was the whispered response ; “ may the Lord he 
with you this mornin’ — an’ it’s ourselves that’ll miss 
you — hut no matther — sure it’s all for the host 1” 
John then unlocked the door with as little noise as 
possible, and Eleanor stept out alone — alone ! Oh, 
what a dreary sense of loneliness came over her 
as the door closed behind her, shutting her our 
from her childhood’s home, and separating her, ay 
it were, from 

“ All her youth’s unconsciousness, and all her lighter cares,” 

and leaving her alone on the threshold of a new 
state, without one of her family or kindred. She 
turned and looked up at the old house — her eye in- 
stinctively sought the windows of her mother’s 
apartment, and a thrill of joy shot through her 
heart when she saw that dear mother smiling and 
weaving a last adieu from her dressing-room win- 
dow. As Eleanor kissed her hand to her mother, 
another face appeared for a moment at the adjoin- 
ing window, and she fancied it was that of her 
father, whereupon she quickened her pace, in great 
trepidation, and almost ran till she reached the gate, 
where she was met by Trelawney, with Amelia 
and Arthur Dixon, attended by a groom, leading a 
horse for EleanOi^ Trelawney leaped from hia 


LIFE N GALWAY. 


ati 

htwse as she approached, and whispered, as he as- 
sisted her to mount : 

“ I trust, dearest Eleanor ! you will ne'^'^er have 
cause to regret this step !” 

“ 1 have no fears on that head,” replied Eleanor 
in a serious tone ; “ if I had, I would not be here 
now.” 

“ So here you are !” said Amelia gaily ; “ upon 
my word, Nell ! I owe you a grudge for taking me 
out of my bed so early. I never felt more inclined 
to ‘slumber on’ than I did this very morning. It 
is really provoking to think how people will marry 
no matter what trouble it may give their neigh 
bors.” 

“ Come, come, Emily !” said her brother, “ turn 
your horse, and let us be off. Don’t you see 
Eleanor is ready to start? We’ll have Mr. 
Ouseiy upon us, if we wait much longer, and I 
give you my word. I’d rather meet any other man 
lust now.” 

Larry Colgan and his wife were both out by this 
time, and though they knew nothing of what w'as 
going forward, they saw that Miss Eleanor and her 
friends were equipped for a jcurney, and, of course, 
they must wdsh them “all sorts of good luck !” 

“ I hope ye’ll have a fine day !” said Larry, as 
he closed the gate after them 5 “ but, in troth, I 
ha\ e my doubts about ihatr 

“ Why, so, Larry ?” asked Sir James. 

3i* 


178 


NEW lights; or 


“ Because the mountains are lookin’ very misty 
this mornin’, your honor, an’ that’s always a bad 
sign. I wouldn’t advise ye to go very far, for the 
ladies, God 'bless them ! might get a wettin’ if you 
did. God send you fair weather at any rate !” 

“ Thank you, Larry !” said Eleanor ; “ I’m glad 
lo have your good wishes this morning. There’s 
something to buy a new gown for Peggy !” and 
she threw him a sovereign through the gate, then 
turned her horse to the road, and they all set ofl 
at a brisk trot. 

Larry stood looking after them for a moment, 
then beckoned Peggy over, out of hearing of the 
children, who were already up and stirring. ‘‘ I’ll 
tell you what it is, Peggy !” said he, “ as sure as 
that goold is in my hand there’s somethin’ goin’ on. 
It’s not for nothin’ that they’re all out so early this 
mornin’. Well ! God bless Miss Eleanor any way, 
an’ send her the heighth o’ good luck wherever she 
goes — I’m thinkin’, Peggy, it’s a long journey she’s 
settin’ out on — an’ none o’ them with her, either !” 
he added musingly — “ bedad, it’s quare enough, so 
it is 1” Peggy ridiculed the supposition as being 
all nonsense,” but Larry “ knew better,” he said. 

A quarter of an hour’s ride brought the little 
party to the gate of the chapel, w^hich lay wide 
open for their reception. The horses were left 
outside on the road, “ for,” said Eleanor to Tre- 
lawney, in a low voice, “ this is holy ground 


LIFE IN GALWAY. giTS 

jvhereor. wo tread; generations of sainted Chiistiaris 
sleep beneath — ” 

Yes ! all honor is due to the lowly dead who 
have died in the Lord,” replied Trelawney ; I 
look upon those Irish church-yards as something 
really venerable — their very dust is the ashes of 
saints and martyrs. But see, dearest, there is 
Father O’Driscoll awaiting us at the door.” 

The priest extended a hand to each as they ap- 
proached, and his kind, paternal smile did Eleanor’s 
heart good. “ If one father disowns and casts me 
off,” said she within herself, “ my heavenly Father 
has provided me with another, even here on earth.” 

“Were you ever here before, dear Eleanor?” 
asked Trelawney in a whisper, as they all followed 
the priest into the sacristy. 

“ Yes,” replied Eleanor, “ this sacred edifice has 
witnessed the two great events of my life ; here I 
was baptized only six days ago, and here, too, I 
received, on last Sunday morning, at early mass, 
the adorable sacrament of the altar for the first 
time ; ah ! Trelawney, how sorry I was that you 
were not there, to have had a share in that super- 
human happiness.” 

Instead of answering directly, Trelawney uttered 
an exclamation of fervent thanksgiving, which 
made E'eanor start, and look inquiringly into his 
face. “ Nay, dear one,” he said with a cloudless 
p-milc, you nce^i not look surprised. Your words 


S80 


NEW lights; or, 


have completed my happiness, for I had no idea 
that you had already made your first communion. 
Father O’Driscoll told me of yoiu’ baptism, but I 
have not seen him since Sunday. This is, indeed, 
PJ-' 

“Thrue for you, Sir James !” said a voice near 
him, and the voice made all the young people 
start, it was so like the voice of Phil Maguire. 
And sure enough it was Phil himself, and no 
other, who had spoken, and there he sat on a bench 
in the corner, all alone, his eyes swimming in joy- 
ful tears, and his face as brimful of happiness as 
ever human face was. Eleanor and Trelawney 
smiled, and Phil nodded and smiled again, and 
repeated with emphasis, though in a suppressed 
tone : “Thrue for you, Sir James — it’s you that’s 
the lucky gentleman all out.” 

“ I quite agree with you, Phil,” whispered Tre- 
lawney close to his ear, as they passed into the 
sacristy, where Father O’Driscoll had preceded 
them. The good priest was calm and collected as 
usual, but the flush of joy was on his thin cheek, 
and his voice was somewhat tremulous. He talked 
some time with Eleanor and Trelawney, on the va- 
rious duties of the state on which they were about to 
enter. When he had concluded his exhortation, 
he said mildly : “ and now, my dear children, you 
can all go out into the chapel, and kneel before tho 
altar (outside the rails) till I prepare for saying 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


381 


mass. I will offer up the holy sacrifice for you, 
before we proceed to the marriage ceremony. 
During mass, you will unite your intention with 
mine, beseeching God to prepare you for the sa- 
crament you are about to receive, to bless your 
union, and to give you the graces necessary for 
the due fulfilment of its duties. You need not 
fear observation ; there will be very few present 
this morning, besides our friend Phil, for we do not 
often say mass here on week-days.” 

Trelawney led Eleanor to the place appointed? 
while Arthur and Amelia took their seats on chairs 
placed for them. What high and solemn thoughts 
flitted through the minds of the youthful pair, as 
they knelt before the altar — “ the altar of sacrifice” 
whereon was daily offered, /(>;• them and for all the 
faithful, the all-atoning sacrifice of the New Law — 
“ the clean sacrifice” foretold by the prophet Mala- 
chy, offered up every day, from the rising to the 
setting of the sun, all over this habitable globe ! 
They raised their eyes respectfully to the picture 
of the Crucifixion which hung over the altar — it 
.was only a colored engraving, but viewed in con- 
nection with Catholic worship, it recalled the whole 
mournful scene of Calvary, and softened the Chris- 
tian heart to melting tenderness. Never had 
Eleanor felt such sensible devotion, as when 
kneeling there, in the stillness of the morning, in 
that humble fane, with the cross before her, and 


NEW lights; cr 


!8S 

by her side him who shared her faith, and was 
soon to receive her plighted vows. 

When mass was over, Father O’Driscoll de- 
scended from the altar, and advanced to tke rails 
The boy who had served mass handed him his 
breviary, the ceremony commenced, and in a few 
minutes Eleanor was “ a wedded wife.” 

“Before the altar now they stand, the bridegroom and the bride ; 

And who shall paint what lovers feel, in this their hour of pride ?” 

Having received the good priest’s benediction, 
and the congratulations of their young friends, the 
bride and bridegroom both expressed their hope that 
Father O’Driscoll would go over to Clareview in 
the course of the afternoon to see them, as they 
were to leave for England next day. Amelia 
seconded the invitation, on the part of her father 
and mother, and F'ather O’Driseoll readily con- 
sented. He went with them as far as the outer 
gate, and Eleanor took the opportunity of saying 
to him, in a low voice ; “ There is one thing more 
I wish you to do for me, Eathei O’Driscoll, and 
that as soon as you possibly can. Will you try 
and prevail on Bernard O’Daly to let one of his 
daughters — I do not care which — go with me to 
England % Tell him I have the interest of his 
family much at heart, and will try to advance it by 
every means in my power. If he consents, the 
girl must be at Clareview this evening, as we start 


LIFE IN GALYfAV. 


383 


early to-moirow. Now mind, Tathev O Driscoll, 
I depend on you !” 

“ Well !” said the priest, with a friendly smile; 
“ I know your benevolent object, Lady Trelawney, 
and I think I may venture to assure you that you 
shall have one of the girls, most probably Bridget. 
God bless you, my child ! you have made sacrifices 
for the honor of Ilis name, and be assured that he 
will repay you either in this life, or in that wdiich is 
to come !” 

‘'Well, I declare !” said Amelia, as they paced 
along together, “I don’t understand w^hy people 
make such a fuss about converting the Papists — 
this is the first time ever I .was in one of their 
chapels, and, upon my word, Nell ! — oh ! I beg a 
thousand pardons — Lady Trelawney ! I never felt 
so much like praying in all my life. It’s a pity 
they have so much fasting, and all that kind of 
thing, for I really think they have the most of the 
piety that’s going ! ITeigho ! I wish they’d let 
people to heaven without doing penance — if they 
did. I’d be a Catholic to-morrow, and keep you all 
-company! But what in the world are you all 
about — examining the pebbles on the road, eh? 
what a precious set of stupid geologists we have 
j^ere — why, if you keep so dull and silent as you now 
are, people will think you are repenting already 1” 
Amelia kept rattling on in this Yvay until they 
reached Clareview, w'hen Eleanor received a truly 


594 


NEW lights; or, 


cordial welcome from Mr. and Mrs. Dixon. In 
the course of the afternoon, Father C’Drisool! 
called, and was at once introduced into the draw 
ing room. 

“ Well ! my dear sir!” said Eleanor, the moment 
she saw him ; “ did you succeed ?” 

“ I did !” replied the priest with a smile, as he 
shook hands with Mr. Dixon and his amiable wife. 
“ You’re to have Bridget, Lady Trelawney, on 
condition tliat you keep a close watch over her 
outgoings and incomings — those are Bernard’s own 
words.” 

“ Thanks, reverend sir ! — the condition is one 
which I would, in any case, have observed. I trust 
Bridget will have no reason to repent of coming 
with me, and then there will be one less ‘ on the 
slmughranj as granny Mulligan would say.” 

“Are you not afraid of losing Mr. Ousely’s 
friendship, Mr. Dixon'?” said Father O’Driscoll, 
with his placid smile. “ He will scarcely forgive 
you for receiving his truant daughter — ^begging her 
ladyship’s pardon !” 

“ He may do for that as he likes, my dear sir,” 
replied Mr. Dixon. “ So long as my conscience 
does not reproach me, I care little for any man’s 
displeasure. I think I have done him no iiv 
jury in this affair,” he added significantly ; “ there 
arc few men who would reject such a son-in-law as 
he has now got. But between you and me,” low- 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


S83 


ering hU voice, “ I don’t think he’s half so angry 
as he pretends — he daren’t, for his life, offend the 
saints, you know, by conniving at his daughter’s 
double crime of becoming a Catholic, and marrying 
a Catholic — you know he has his character to keep 
up, and must do it, let what will follow ! — oh, 
blessed effects of the no-Popery mania !” 

In the course of the evening Mr. Dixon related 
the scene which he had witnessed in the forge a 
few days before, and the company enjoyed a hearty 
laugh at the expense of poor McGilligan, styled by 
Amelia “ the knight of the rueful countenance.” 
Mr, Dixon went on to say that the honest black- 
smith had been brought before the bench for the 
crime of burning the bible. “Fortunately,” said 
he, “ there was barely a quorum sitting, and of 
the three two of us were opposed to the prosely- 
tizing system, so we dismissed the case, with an 
admonition to the blacksmith not to burn any more 
bibles. ’ 

He had scarcely done speaking when Mrs. 
Ousely was announced, and Eleanor hastened down 
stairs to have a little private talk with her mother 
before she entered the drawing-room. In a few 
minutes Sir James was sent for, and when they all 
three rejoined the company, Mrs. Ousely was lean^ 
ing on his arm and smiling through the toara 
which dimmed her still beautiful eyes. When all 
the Dixon family had shook hands with Mrs. 

33 


B86 


NEW lights; or, 


Ousely, she kept looking at Father O’Drisccll, 
who hung back, scarcely knowing whether to come 
forward or not, until Eleanor led her mother to- 
wards him, saying ; 

“ Mother ! let me make you acquainted with 
Father O’Driscoll — now indeed my father !” 

“I was unwilling to offer myself to your ac- 
quaintance, madan\ !” said the priest, with a re- 
spectful bow, “net knowing how you might be 
disposed to regard a Catholic priest, and especially 
one who has had the happiness of opening the 
doors of the Church to Sir James and Lady Tre- 
lawney, a heinous crime, I admit !” He smiled as 
he spoke these words, and Mrs. Ousely smiled too. 

“ Nay, my good sir,” said she, “ I am not quite 
as bad as you suppose, in that respect — 1 am a 
Protestant, indeed, and mean to continue so, but 1 
do not go so flir as to hate any one for not being a 
Protestant — in proof whereof, there is my hand ! 
If my daughter thinks she will have a better 
chance of salvation as a Catholic, I am content !” 

Very soon after the arrival of Mrs. Ousely. 
Eleanor was again summoned dowm stairs, and 
this tim-e she found Phil Maguire and Bridget 
O’Daly. 

“I am very glad to see you, Bridget!’ said 
Eleanor, pointing to a seat, “and you, too, Mr. 
Maguire. I hope your wife is in good health ” 

“ She can’t complain. Miss Eleanor — but, bloot 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


387 


ilive! sura you’re not Miss Eleanor now, it 
seems I’* 

“Never mind, Mr. Maguire!” said Eleanor 
blushing; “the name is not of any great conse- 
quence just now. How are your father and sis- 
ters, Bridget 

“ They’re all well, I thank you, Miss — I mean, 
ma’am ! — my father’s like a new man since” — 

“ Ahem !” said Phil, breaking in suddenly ; “ I 
was wantin’ to see Mister Dixon — if I could just 
have a word with him.” 

Eleanor rang for a servant, and sent up the mes- 
sage to Mr. Dixon, who quickly made his appear 
ance. 

“Well, Phil! what’s the matter now? — any 
word from your young friend, Owen ?” 

“That’s jist what I wanted to spake to your 
honor about,” said Phil, exchanging a significant 
glance with Bridget, who seemed more inclined to 
laugh than anything else. “I’m afeard there’s 
something wrong, Misther Dixon, dear, when he’s 
not cornin’ — here’s a bit of a letther that came 
from Galway this mornin’ to poor Bernard — maybe 
it’ll explain the matther to our satisfaction.” So 
saying, he stood up and drew from behind a door, 
not a letter, but Owen O’Daly himself, thin and 
pale indeed, but with a bright smile on his hand- 
some face. Mr. Dixon and Eleanor started, but 
Phil was as cool as possible. “ There now, your 


8S8 


NEW LI GHTS J OR, 


Honor,” said he, “ there’s the letther — it’s a letthei 
of thanks, Misther Dixon, as full of gratitude as 
an egg’s full of meat !” 

“ Yes, Mr. Dixon !” said Owen, with deep emo- 
tion, “ I am here in person to thank you fur your 
unhoped-for interference on my behalf, and to 
assure you that neither I nor mine will ever forget 
it. Our gratitude is not worth much, sir, but if 
ever it’s in the power of any of us to do anything 
for you, then, sir, you’ll see how grateful we can 
be !” 

“ I believe you, Owen, my poor fellow !” said 
Mr. Dixon ; “ I know you all better than you 
think. Tell your father from me that I have a 
little place in view for him, and that I’ll send him 
word as soon as I have all preliminaries arranged.” 

Owen and Phil then took their leave, after 
drinking the health of the bride and bridegroom in 
a couple of glasses of Kinahan’s old malt. Bridget 
went with them to the door, begging of Owen to 
write to her very, very often, “ for mind if you 
don’t,” said she, sobbing fairly out, “ I’ll be home 
with you very soon. Remember, Owen dear, that 
it’s only for the sake of being able to help my 
father and all of you, that I’m going away amongst 
the cold strangers — except my mistress that is to 
be — and that hearing from home will be my only 
comfort. Phil, be sure and tell Nanny that I’li 
send her someth’ng that I know she’ll like, the very 


LIFE IN GALWAY, 


389 


h'Bt monej I get in my hands! The Lord’s 
blessing be about her and you both !” A.xl poor 
Bridget could scarcely get out the w'ords ; her 
brother could not command his voice to speak, but 
he squeezed her hand hard, hard, and then hurried 
away, Bridget calling after him ; “ Be sure now 
and let me know as soon as ever you get a letter 
from Cormac and Daniel, and don’t forget to send 
me their address 1” 

“ Never fear, Bridget !” said Phil ; “ auiong us 
all, you’ll not be forgotten — only don’t bo bother- 
ing us about your presents — if I see you lay in’ 
out your money- that way, you’ll be in the back 
o’ the books. D’ye mind now 1 — jist keep your 
money, ma colleen^ for them that wants it most, an’ 
that’s what’ll plase both Nanny an’ me best 1” 
Bridget said nothing, but she thought the more, 
and all that evening, as she sorted and packed 
Eleanor’s clothes, which had been sent to Glare- 
view some days before, she kept saying to herself : 
“ That would be om way of showing gratitude, but 
it isn’t my way ! — no, indeed, if Nanny hasn’t aa 
elegant silk shawl before next summer it won’t bo 
my fault I” 

When Mrs. Ousely came to take leave of her 
daughter, she was not half so much agitated as 
might be supposed, and when Eleanor clung to her 
neck in an agony of weeping, she softly whispered : 

“ Be comforted, my daughter ! we shall soon meet 


490 NEW lights; or, 

again — ^believe me we shall !” Eleanor wept no 
more. 

On the following day, when the new-mariied 
pair reached Galway, accompanied by Amelia 
Dixon, who w^as to spend the winter with them in 
Somersetshire, the first person they saw, on reach- 
ing the hotel where they were to await the sailing 
of the packet, was Mr. Ousely, whip in hand, who 
appeared to take no notice of them as they passed 
in, but they were scarcely seated in the parlor 
when he bolted in, and nodding to Trelawney, 
went straight up to where Eleanor w'as sitting, and 
planted himself right before her. Trelawney drew 
near, fearing that he meant to strike her, and 
Eleanor, pale with apprehension, could only falter 
out : 

“ Father ! you here % I did not expect — 
what” — 

“ I’m here to see you off, you ungrateful, unduti- 

ful hussy ! — d n it, Nell ! how could you think 

of treating your father so ? — there — that’ll do — I 
forgive you. Papist and all as you are. Give mo 
your hand, Trelawney ! — hang it ! I’m not as bad 
as I seem — my bark is worse than my hite^ as the 
adage says. The old woman and myself are going 
over to see you soon. Let them say what they 
like, Nell ! you’re my daughter still. Now, Ame- 
lia, I’m not sc bad, after all, you see I” 


LIBE IN QALWAT. 


39 1 

“ I’m very glad to hear you say so, Mr. Oiisely !” 
replied Amelia drily ; “ you ought to know best.” 

“ My dear father !” said Eleanor, taking both 
his hands in hers ; “ how happy you have made me 
by this most unexpected kindness ! Your presence 
DOW is like balm to my heart, for the thought of 
having incurred your displeasure would have em- 
bittered every moment of my life ! — May I hope,” 
she added with her sweetest smile, “ that you will 
extend your forgiveness to my partner in guilt 

“Allow me to support the prayer of the peti- 
tion, Mr. Ousely !” said Sir James, coming for- 
ward with outstretched hand. “ You ought to for- 
give me, my dear sir, for you must admit that it 
I robbed you of a daughter I have given you a 
son-in-law.” 

Ousely looked at the offered hand for a moment, 
as though he were undecided, then suddenly taking 
hold of it, he gave it a hearty shake : 

“ D n it, I suppose I must give in. I had 

my mind made up to shoot you the first opportu- 
nity, but now I think I’ll go home and have a 
chance at Dixon — eh, Amelia 1” 

“ Oh, pray don’t, sir,” said Amelia, with mock 
seriousness — “ pray, don’t shoot papa — he’ll never 
do the like again !” 

“I believe you,” said Ousely, with a laugh j 
“ he can never offend me, at least, in the same way. 
O^me along, Trelawney, and let us see about 


392 


ifEW lights; or, 


having a lunch — after that there are some pecu- 
niary affairs to be settled before you go — Nell 
Ousely must not go to her new home a beg- 
gar after all that’s past and gone !” 


SilSa IN GALWAY. 




CHAPTER XVII. 

*£iiSi2t scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history. ^ 

SHAKSPEXfiS 

“Here, too, dwells simple truth ; plain innocence ; 

Unsullied beauty ; sound, unbroken youth. 

Patient of labor ; with a little pleased ; 

Health ever blooming ; unambitious toil.” 

Tho.mso.v’s Seasons. 

A YEAR had passed away, after the events re- 
corded in our last chapter, and it had, as usual, 
brought many changes ; for there is no year that 
rolls away into the far depths of eternity, without 
producing some revolution, or effecting some 
change “ in the affairs of men.” Bernard O’Daly 
had moved into th^ house so kindly given him by 
Mr. Dixon, and through the kindness of Phil and 
Nanny, and a few otlker neighbors who were still 
in a condition to give a little help, it was soon 
provided with the little plenishing which the family 
required. Owen had regular employmert at 
Clareview, w^here he was engaged to assist the 
gardener all the year round, and Mr. Dixon gave 
him a small plot of ground, on very moderate 
terms, which he cultivated before and after hours, 
Mid thus raised as much vegetables as helped to 


894 


NEW lights; of 


support the family, now much reduced in numbers, 
Mrs. Ousely, unknown to her husband, gave Kath- 
leen so much sewing to do, that it kept both her 
andEveleen employed during the intervals of their 
household duties. Peace had again settled down 
on this long- afflicted family, and the sorrows 
of the past were already assuming a softened, hazy 
character in their remembrance. Bridget was still 
with Lady Trelawney, who had fulfilled to the 
letter all the promises she had made in her favor, 
and regularly every quarter, there came a few 
pounds for Bernard, together with sundry presents 
for Owen and the girls, which, with their own 
earning, enabled them to resume somewhat of their 
former respectability of appearance. Phil and 
Nanny were still jogging on “ thegither,” as kind 
and as eccentric as ever. Bridget O’Daly had not 
forgotten her promise in regard to Nanny, and, on 
every fine Sunday or holy day, the good woman was 
seen trudging along to the parish Chapel, with a rich 
shawl of crimson silk covering her broad shoul- 
ders ; after a little there came a handsome merino 
dress, and lastly, a fine Tuscan bonnet, with a great 
plenty of broad, rich ribbon, and when Nanny was 
attired in all this finery, it was her pride to tell 
the neighbor women who gathered round her in 
the chapel -yard after mass ; “ They’re all presents 
from Bridget O’Daly, and came all the way from 
England beyant ! Isn’t it past the common, the 


LIFE IS GALWAY. 395 

goodness of that girl ? See what a niii>t o’ money 
she must have laid out on them ! — an’ jist look at 
our Phil, yondher — well ! it was Bridget sent him 
that beautiful silk handkecher he has on his neck.” 
These announcements were heard with all due ad- 
miration, but most of the women wound up their 
praise of the objects themselves, and the kindness 
of “ them that sent them,” with, “ but sure she 
done nothing but what she had a right to do — it’s 
yourself an’ Phil that was the good, kind friends 
to them all, when they wanted them badly, poor 
things!” “Well! of coorse,” would Nanny say, 
“ we did what we could, an’ maybe a little more, 

too — na hocklish but still, it’s an ould sayin’, 

you know, that eaten bread'' s soon forgotten; but 
it’s not so with the O’Daly s, the creatures ! they 
have the ould dacency in them yet, an’ the piety, 
and the goodness — ” 

“ Signs on them, Mrs. Maguire !” said old Judy ; 
“ sure they’re gettin’ over their throuble bravely, 
thanks be to God for it, an’ they’re beginnin’ to do 
well again !” 

“ Betther an’ betther may they do, then !” said 
Peggy Colgan, w^ho was one of the group of lis- 
teners. “I know the misthress up at the Hall 
thinks a power of them, an’ keeps the girls 
constantly in work. When she w'as over seein’ 
Lady Trelawney last summer — you know she 
spent a month ^ith her ’ she took a great likin’ 


396 


NEW lights; oh, 


to Bridget. It seems there’s a young heir born, 
an’ Bridget’s got to be nurse, an’ she has a great 
advance in her wages — so you see, when luck comei 
it comes jumpin\'*' 

‘•%ut do you tell me, Peggy, that there’s a son 
come home f ’ asked Nanny, in surprise. “ Why, 
I didn’t hear a word of it.” 

“ Well, it’s thrue for all that,” replied Peggy. 
“ The misthress herself tould me when I was 
openin’ the gate for her this mornin, an’ her goin’ 
out to church.” 

“ Dear me, then,” said Nanny, “ I must go an’ 
tell Phil an’ the rest o’ them,” and away she bus- 
tled, brimful of the glad tidings she had to 
communicate. First she told it to Phil, who 
rubbed his hands, and cried : “Blood alive ! Nanny, 
that’s great news — I declare I’m as glad as ever I 
was in all my life ; an’ you tell me that Miss 
Eleanor — pooh, bad cess to this memory o’ mine 
— I mane her ladyship is well — ” 

“ ’Deed an’ 1 didn’t tell you any such thing,” 
retorted Nanny, “for I never thought of askin’; 
but I suppose she’s well, or Peggy’d have said so.” 
Then she hurried off in search of the O’Dalys, 
whom she found assembled at Honora’s grave. 
Nanny had too much natural delicacy to open her 
news-bag in such a place or at such a time, so she 
knelt with the others, and offered up a fervent 
prayer for the repose of the soul of her ancieni 


LIFE IN a A LW A Y . 


3£7 


friend. It was not till she brought them all back 
to where Phil was standing, that she told them 
what had happened, and then they were so “ over- 
joyed,” as they said themselves, that they forgot 
all about their recent sadness, and the tears were 
quickly wiped away. “Musha! the Lord be 
praised !” cried Bernard ; “ I’m a poor man this 
blessed day, an’ I’d rather hear that news than if I 
got a purse of goold — indeed, I could scarce hear 
anything that ’id plase me better, barrin’ it was 
news from Cormac and Daniel.” 

“Well! come home now an’ have your dinner 
with us,” said Phil, “ an’ we can talk over all the 
news,” To this Kathleen made some objection, 
but Nanny laid hold of her arm, and taking Eve 
leen by the hand, said : 

“ None of your nonsense now — I’m sure we're 
no sthrangers, that you’d be makin’ excuses that 
way. There now, Phil, do you bring Bernard and 
Ow’en with you, I have my share!” so off she 
marched with her two laughing prisoners, while 
Phil brought up the rear with Bernard and Owen. 
Before they left the chapel-yard, however, they 
made it their business to see Father O’Driscoli, 
and tell him the good news from England. 

“ I am much obliged to you all,” said he, with 
his accustomed smile, “ for coming to make me a 
sharer in your joy but I heard the news yesterday 
fcud I can tell you further that the young heir ol 

4 * 


59 ^ 


^EW lights; or, 


Trelawney House is called Thomas Harrington, 
first in honor of the saint on w’hose day he was 
born, and next in compliment to Mr. Ousely, who, 
I am told, is quite elated.” He then shook hands 
with Eveleen, and hoped she was still a good, du- 
tiful girl ; — her father answered for her that he 
couldn’t complain of poor Eveleen — she was al- 
ways a good, obedient child. 

“Any word from America yet, Bernard?” in- 
quired Father O’Driscoll. 

“Not since that last letter that I showed your' 
reverence — I’m beginnin’ to be uneasy about the 
boys, for you know they said in that letter that 
they’d soon write again.” 

“ Oh, but you must not be uneasy, Bernard ! — 
your boys are in good keeping — Qod will watch 
over them and you too — make yourself easy on 
that head, and you will soon see that there is no 
cause for apprehension ! — I must now bid you all 
good bye, or Nancy Breen will raise a storm about 
my ears if I let my breakfast be spoiled. God 
bless you all !” 

The chapel was already far behind, and our little 
party trudged merrily along, while “talk of va- 
rious kinds beguiled the road.” They had got 
about half way to Phil Maguire’s house, when An- 
dre iv McGilligan passed them by, his books, as 
usual, under his arm, and his broad-brimmed hat 
pulled down over his brows. 


LIFE IN a A LWAT 


199 


“ Ilillo, Andrew !” cried Phil, winking at Ber- 
nard, “ what's your hurry, man alive ? — can’t you 
take time to give us a verse or too — do, Andy 
dear, we’re all poor Papists here, thirsting for tha 
wordf and Phil imitated the nasal twang of the 
Conventicle to such perfection that no one could 
help laughing, but Andrew walked on, ‘ fast and 
faster,’ and never once turned his head. 

“ Begorra,” said Phil, “ he’s afeard of bein’ 
turned into a pillar of salt like Lot’s wife ! Och, 
then, Andy ahagur, but it’s althered times with 
you, honey, when you’d pass us by with the could 
shoulder. Dear, oh dear ! what’s the world cornin’ 
to, at all 1” Still Andy kept never minding. 

“But, that’s thrue, Andy, did you hear the 
news I” cried Phil, raising his voice as the distance 
between them increased. Andrew was seen to 
slacken his pace, but still he never looked behind. 

“ I say, acushla shouted his persevering inter- 
rogator. “ Did you hear what happened your 
friend O’llagarty the other day 1” 

“ No,” said Andrew, cornin’ to a full stop, and 
facing round ; “ I trust no evil has befallen him 

“ Evil enough,” replied Phil ; “ he was taken 
sick afther a surfeit of dhrinking, and kicked the 
Ducket.” 

“ What !” cried Andrew, opening his eyes wide ; 
‘ you don’t mean to say that he died ?” 

“That’s just what I do mane to say!” rejoined 


400 


NEW lights; or, 


Phil ; but that wasn’t the worst of it, Ancl}f 
dear — it was’t bad enough for him to die, but he 
thought fit to call for the priest when he found 
himself goin’.” 

“ Poor man poor man 1” quoth Andy ; “ he 
must have lost his senses !” 

“ You mane to say, he began to find them. But 
you needn’t be so shocked, Andy, the devil had 
too fast a grip of him to let him slip that w'ay, 
afther him sarvin’ him sc long. There was a body 
guax'd of your ‘ dearly beloved brethren’ about 
him to see that no priest came, an’ the more the 
unfortunate man cried out for a priest the higher 
they raised their voices, telling him to ‘ hope in 
God,’ an’ to ‘believe on the Lord Jesus,’ an’ that 
that was ad he had to do. Och, the curse o’ God 
villains ! they done their duty well, an’ kept quotin’ 
Scripture to the man that was only answerin’ 
them with oaths an’ curses, till the poor, miserable 
soul left the body an’ w’ent to its account.” 

The last part of the discourse was lost on Andy, 
who had quivkly scampered out of hearing. Phil 
himself, and those- who were with him, were so 
shocked by the terrible picture thus presented to 
their mmds, that for some time they walked on in 
silence. 

“ May the Lord save us all from an ill end !” 
said Nanny at lengt i. It’s enough to frighten the 


LIFE. IN GALWAY, 


401 


life in one to think of such a death as that. Och, 
och, hut they’re well guided that God guides !” 

“ You may say that, Nanny dear !” said Bernard, 
with a heavy sigh; “I had heard before now that 
poor O’llagarty was dead, God pardon him his 
sins ! but I didn’t hear anything of how or when it 
happened. To tell you the thruth, I was sorry 
when I heard it, for, bad as the crature was, he 
wouldn’t sware agin Owen in the wrong. Ah, 
then, Phil dear ! how did it happen that he died 
without the clargy — was there no Christian within 
bearin’ that ’id go for the priest 

There was,” said Phil, “ one or two Catholic 
sarvints in the house, an’ one of them, bearin’ the 
poor man pladin’ with the black-livered Jumpers 
an’ Scripture-readers to send for a priest, went 
straight to the priest’s house, but as ill luck ’ud have 
it, he was out on a sick call, an’ the girl darn’t 
take time to go to the other end of the town, where 
there was another — at any rate, by the time she 
got back, the poor man was at the last gasp, an’ 
they say it was pitiful to see him. The very last 
words he said were : ‘ Oh Lord ! oh Lord ! the 
shadow of the cross won’t rest on my grave ! — oh 
misery ! — I’m lost ! — I’m lost !’ An’ so he died. 
When the long-nosed, black-faced genthry were 
quite sure that he was gone, an’ that there was no 
more danger of his dyin’ a Catholic, they went ofl 
%n’ left him to the people o’ the house to get liiiu 

34 * 


NEW lights; or, 


buried in the best wr-y they could, only tellin’ them 
that he was to go to the Prodestan’ buryin’-ground. 
They say there was a great show-ofl’ of Scripture- 
readers, an’ Jumpers, an’ all such rilT-rafT at his 
funeral.” 

“ What a lamentable death !” said Owen. “ The 
poor dying sinner pronounced his own condemna- 
tion, as very often happens. I suppose you all 
heard of that other priest who came back a few 
weeks ago here in Connemara.” 

“ No,” said Phil, “ we didn’t hear anything of it. 
Where did you see it 

“ Why, in a Dublin newspaper that Father 
O’Driscoll lent me. It seems that the Protestant 
bishop was going to give confirmation, and the 
minister requested this priest — I forget his name — 
to prepare for being confirmed on a certain day. 
It’s likely that he had been thinking about the state 
of his soul before that, for all at once he took a 
notion and went to the real bishop, who was also 
in town at the time, and humbled himself before 
him, begging to be received back into the Church, 
and that he’d do anything at all the bishop might 
choose to lay upon him as penance for the crying 
scandal he had given the faithful. The bishop, of 
course, consented, and the poor priest made a 
public recantation, and tried to address the people 
present in the church, but couldn’t go on, he wa^ 
80 deeply affected, between shame and sorrow.” 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


40? 


“ Ah !” sajd Phil, “ but he must have been a 
\’ery different man from poor O’Hagarty — I sup- 
pose he had only been a short time out o’ the 
church, and hadn’t led sich a bad life, or the bishop 
wouldn’t have received him so easily !” 

They had now reached the house, and were 
agreeably surprised to find the dinner almost 
ready, for Katty Boyce, seeing them linger so long, 
liad quietly slipped away, and set about cooking 
the dinner, having overheard the invitation given to 
the O’Daly family, “ an’,” said she, “ I knew very 
well that it ’id be very late when yez ’id get home, an’ 
that it wouldn’t be any affront to find the dinner 
near ready. By good luck, I was in here this 
momin’ awhile, an’ seen what the misthress laid 
out for the dinner.” 

“ By the laws, Katty, it was a lucky thought !” 
said Phil, “ for we’re all starvin’ with hunger.” 

“ It was well you knew where to find the kay,” 
observed Nanny, as she threw off her cloak (it 
being mid-winter), and hastened to assist Katty. 

“ So you don’t go any more to the soup-house, 
Katty I” said Owen, slily. 

“ Och, musha, but it’s myself that does not,” 
replied Katty, as she wiped the perspiration from 
her face, with the corner of her clean check apron ; 
“ since I fell in with these people here, I never 
knew what want was, nor the children neither, 
glory be to God ! — sure the boys goes every day 


404 


NEW LIG HTSJ C R, 


to school to our own school-house, an’ afther school 
they come over here, an’ do little turns for Misther 
Maguire, an’ sure the misthress an’ him keeps 
clothes on them, an I declare to you, Owen, we’re 
as happy an’ contented as if we were in the king’s 
'alace !” And the cheerful, ruddy countenance Ot 
poor Katty was an unmistakable proof that she 
spoke the truth. 

About two days after, Eveleen was sent to the 
post-office in Killany to see “ if there was any 
luck,” and her timid question of “ Is there anything 
for Bernard O’Daly ?” was answered by the ready 
response: “Yes, my little girl, there’s something 
for you to-day. Here’s an American letter, and a 
money -letter, too. You haven’t your journey for 
nothing this time.” 

“ How much is on it, if you please, sir said 
Eveleen, as she put the precious letter in her bo- 
som. “ My father only sent a shilling with me.” 

“ Well ! there’s four pence more on it,” said the 
postmaster, “ but you can give it to me some other 
time,” 

Eveleen ran the whole way home, and when she 
got near the house, she saw Kathleen standing on 
the ditch, watching for her. 

“ Well, Eveleen, what news have you 1” 

“ Good news, Kathleen — a great big letter with 
Cormac’s own hand-writing on the lack and Mr, 
Brown says it’s a money-letter.” 


LIFE IN GALWAY, 


m 

Their father met them at the door, and before 
he had time to speak, Evelcen put the letter into his 
hand, having first kissed it over and over. Agita- 
ted by his excessive joy, the old man could scarce- 
ly keep his feet, and his daughters led him to a 
seat. Then, when he did attempt to open the let- 
ter, his hands trembled so that he could not succeed 
in breaking the seal. Handing it to Kathleen, he 
said: “There, Kauth, darling! do you read it — 
joy is a’most as powerful as griof, children ! — I 
wish poor Owen was here at the openin’ of it, but 
sure we can’t have every thing we wish — the Lord 
make us truly thankful for what He sends us ! Go 
on, Kathleen dear, let us hear what’s in it.” 

The letter was written one half by Cormac, and 
the other by Daniel. It spoke of many trials and 
hardships, “ all past and gone,” as the brothers 
gratefully said, and of sudden prosperity pouring 
in upon them when they least expected it ; and as 
a proof that they did not forget the condition in 
which they had left “ the loved ones at home,” 
they inclosed a draft for one hundred dollars, being 
twenty pounds sterling. (They had sent five pounds 
before, which had been laid out on a suit of clothes 
for Bernard, and another for Owen.) They 
l)Oth assured their father that he need not want 
for any comfort, for that they were both in good 
situations, Cormac as steward of a steamboat, 
and Daniel as clerk in a store, and that he might 


406 


NEW LIGHIS; OR, 


depend on having a remittance from them every 
three or four months. “We would send for you 
all, my dear father,” wrote Cormac, “ were it not 
that we thought it would be more agreeable to }mu 
to spend the evening of your life in the place 
where your youth was passed, and where our dear 
mother lies. We knew that to take you away 
from poor old Ireland, would be like the parting of 
soul and body, and so we made up our minds to 
let you remain there, with Owen and our dear 
sisters. We are rejoiced to hear that Bridget is 
so well situated, and that she still shows herself 
what she always was, a good and affectionate 
daughter. Give our kind love to Phil and Nanny 
Maguire, and to all inquiring friends, not forget- 
ting granny Mulligan, (whom Owen forgot to 
mention in his last letter.) Give our best respects 
to Father O’Driscoll, and tell him that we never 
forgot his parting words, and with God’s help 
never will. There’s a great deal of noise here 
about the proselytizing in Connemara, and it often 
makes us laugh (though it’s provoking enough, too,) 
to hear of tJiB great reformation going on there. It 
would be a real farce to us, who know how matters 
really stand, were it not connected with the fearful 
sufferings of our people, who have not only famine 
and pestilence to contend with, but also this so- 
called Refommtion^ perhaps the greatest plague of 
all ! When you write, tell us all about it, but J 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


401 


iuppose it has nearly died a natural death by this 
time, seeing that the famine is well nigh over. Tell 
Fatiier O’Driscoll that either Daniel or I will write to 
him very soon. Pray for us, my dear father and my 
good sisters, you who rest quietly in the old ark 
of peace at home, while we are tossed about on 
the restless waters of this great commercial world. 
Pray for us that we be not ‘ led into temptation, 
aod’s blessing be with you all !” 

Whilst Kathleen was reading the letter, her fa- 
ther sat with his hands clasped on the top of his 
stick, and his eyes fixed on his daughter’s face, 
while the big tears rolled unheeded down his 
cheeks. When it was all read, from date to signa- 
ture, the old man drew a long breath. 

“ Well, thanks be to God!” said he, “ they’re 
doin’ their own share, any w'ay, for us. Sure 
enough, I’m the happiest father on Irish ground, 
an’ I don’t desarve the tithe of the good gifts the 
Lord is sendin’ me 1 — och ! och 1 children dear, if 
your poor mother had only lived to see this day, 
ic ’id banish the cowld grief from her heart, an’ 
make her eyes shine as bright as they did when 
she was a purty, fair-haired colleen, years an’ years 
ago. But then isn’t it sinful to wish her back on 
this miserable earth, where joy only comes in lit- 
tle weeny blinks now an’ then — och, what’s tho 
happiness that we have here, to the never-endin’ 
glory an’ happiness that she now enjoys ? for if 


NEW lights; or, 


m 

§Ae’s not happy,” he added, in a sort of soliloquizing 
tone, “ then God help the world !” 

“ But, father dear !” said Kathleen, smiling 
through her tears, “ you’re not asking to see tho 
draft.” 

“ Why, then, it’s thrue for you, Kauth ! I was 
forgettin’ all about it ! Give it here, Eveleen, my 
daughter.” The Ifttle girl had been examining the 
precious document, as a sort of curiosity in its 
way, and she said, as she handed it to her father : 
“ Well ! isn’t it curious how that little bit of paper 
can be worth twenty pounds !” 

When Bernard had carefully inspected the draft, 
with the help of his spectacles, he pulled out an 
old leather pocket-book, which might have been in 
the family “ since the wars of Ireland,” and in it 
he placed both the letter and its inclosure, the for- 
mer being, if anything, the more valuable of the 
two, at least in Bernard’s estimation. When Owen 
came home in the evening, Eveleen met him at 
the door with the good news, and he had scarcely 
crossed the threshold, when his father handed him 
the letter. A flush of joy crimsoned Owen’s fine 
features, as he read the hope-inspiring words 
penned by those brothers, so dearly loved, and 
£0 “ far, far away.” Cormac had mentioned, in the 
earlier part of his letter, that he and Daniel would 
be imre than glad to send for Owen, but that they 


LIFE IN GAI WAY. 


im 


supposed he would not think of leaving iiome, so 
long as God spared their dear father. 

“ lie is right !” said Owen, with generous 
warmth ; “ it’s the least that the fatlier of three 
sons should hav*e one of them to lay the sod over 
him when it pleases God to take him to himself.” 

“ God bless you, Owen ! God bless you, my 
son !” said his father, his eyes filling with tears. 
“ I’m sorry to have to keep you from where you 
might have a chance of risin’ in the world !” 

“You needn'’t be a bit sorry, then, father, on 
that account,” replied the young man warmly ; 
“ for I can tell you it’s proud and happy I feel to 
be the one that God has pitched upon to be near 
you, and to comfort you in your old age, especially 
as it’s an honor I couldn’t expect, being the 
youngest.” 

The old man smiled and shook his head, and 
told Kathleen to make haste with the supper, “ for 
sure the poor boy must be in need of it by this 
time.” 

In the course of the evening, Bernard and his 
children held a consultation as to what w^as to be 
done with their newly-acquired wealth. After 
some deliberation, the old man said : 

“ That’s the first thing to bo done at any rate, 
so, plase God ! I’ll take a walk over there soma 
time to-morrow ” 

Whatever the proposal was, it was quite agreejt 


ilO 


NEW lights; or, 


ble to the young people, and so the matter rested 
for tliat night. Never had the Rosary been said 
with more fervor than it was on that night, for as 
Kathleen said : 

“ We offered up many a prayer to the Mother of 
God when we were in sore, sore need, and it’s the 
least we can do to thank her now, when she has 
obtained so many blessings for us, and brought us 
safe through all our trouble.” 

The prayers once over, the happy family retired 
to rest, and their slumbers were calm and sound, 
for theirs was precisely the oondition which attracts 
“ tired nature’s sweet restorer — balmy sleep,” who 

“ Like the world, his ready visit pays 

Where fortune smiles.” 


Early next day Bernard set out on the well- 
breaten track that led across the fields to Phil Ma- 
guire’s. On reaching the comfortable old home- 
stead he found Nanny alone in the house, and she 
hard at work whitewashing her kitchen. 

“ God bless the work, Nanny I” said Bernard, as 
he entered ; “ where’s the good man from you this 
mornin’ f ’ 

“ Why, then, Bernard O’Daly, is this yourself'?” 
cried Nanny, giving her brush a shake over tha 
pail. “ The sorra one o’ me knows where Phil is, 
barrin’ he’s out in the byre, fotherin’ the cattle. 
But, sure, it’s newens to see you out so early 


LIFE Irf GALWAY. 


411 


Thrae for you, Nanny, an’ maybe I wouldn’t 
be so early afoot this morn in’, only that I have a 
little business with Phil. I’ll just step 0 'i>t myself, 
an’ see if he’s about the house.” 

Nanny’s curiosity was fairly excited, and hei 
mind was, at least, as busy as her hands, until Ber 
nard came bacit in a few minutes with Phil. 

“ Come an’ take an air o’ the fire, Bernard,” said 
Phil ; “ it’s freezin’ hard.” So saying, he began to 
rake out the hot greeslmugh^ while Bernard, on the 
other hand, was taking from his old pocket-book 
the highly-prized American letter, which was very 
quickly discovered by Nanny’s keen eye. 

“ Eh ! — what’s that, Bernard '1 — have you got a 
letther from the boys I” 

“ Deed an’ I have, Nanny, an’ that’s what 
brought me over this mornin’. There’s the letther, 
Phil, an’ see what was in it.” He handed the let- 
ter and the draft to Phil. 

“ How much is in it, Phil 1” said Nanny, sud- 
denly dropping her brush, and sitting down on a 
creepy beside her husband. 

“ Blood alive !” said Phil, after looking at the 
draft. “ Twenty pounds — not a penny less ! — By 
the laws, Bernard, you’re a rich man this mornin’.” 

“ Twenty pounds !” repeated Nanny in amaze- 
mcnt. “ Why, Lord bless me, Bernard, what will 
you do with all that money ?” 

^ Oh, ril find use for it, never fear !” said tha 


&12 


NEW lights; or. 


Did man, with a smile. “ Bat go on an’ read 
letther, Phil, an’ I’m sure both of you’ll say that 1 
have the best sons that ever stepped in shoe 
leather — God reward them for it !” 

When Phil had got through the letter, Bernard 
ga’id very quietly : 

“ And now, Phil, I’ve something to say to you-— 
there’s a part o’ this money that belongs to you P 

“ To me P^ cried Phil, staring at him in astonish 
ment ; “ why, how would any of it belong to me, 
in the name o’ goodness 

“ What in the world do you mane, Bernard ?” 
exclaimed Nanny. 

“ Why, then, I declare you’re the simplest pair 
in the world wide,” said Bernard, “ or you’d know 
very well what I mane — I want to make you some 
allowance for all the time that myself an’ the 
children were on your floor, an’ eatin’ your bread. 
Myself and Owen jist settled it atween us last 
night, that I’d come over this mornin’ with the 
dhraft, an’ let you take whatever you like out 
of it!” 

“ Yourself an’ Owen might have employed your- 
selves betther than settlin’ any such thing,” returned 
Phil testily, “ an’ if I had a known what was 
bringin’ you here. I’m blest and happy but I’d have 
given you the door this morning, cowld as it is. 
If it wasn’t youi own four boires that’s in it, Ber. 
nard O’Dal'y ! I vow to God, I’d never change 


LIF.E IN GAIWAY. 


41i 


rords with you, afther makin’ me sucli an offer ! — 
put thxit in your pipe and smoke it !” 

Nanny’s cupidity was at first strongly excited by 
Bernard’s proposal, but on hearing her husband’a 
burst of generous indignation, her own better na- 
ture triumphed, and she said : 

“ Hut, tut ! Bernard ! didn’t you know very 
well that what we done was done for God’s sake, 
an’ for the sake of ould friendship f ’ 

“ I know, Nanny, I know that very well, but 
still an’ all, it’s only fair that when God sends it to 
me, I’d make you some return.” 

“ Now, I’ll tell you what it is, Bernard !” said 
Phil, laying his hand on his knee, “ if ever I hear 
you spake of sich a thing again. I’ll never open my 
lips to you while there’s breath in my body. 
Nanny ! rise up an’ get us that black bottle that’s 
in the cupboard there — this poor foolish old man 
’ill be the better of a glass this frosty mornin’ 
afther his walk.” 

“ Thank you all the same, Phil, but I'd rather 
not take anything. I’m jist on my step down to 
Pather O’ Driscoll to show him the letther.” 

“ Bad cess to the foot you’ll stir out o’ this, till 
you take something to warm you — make haste, 
Nanny.” So the black bottle was brought, and 
the quarrel was made up, but not until Bernard 
had to promise that he would never again offend in 
B similar way, and then Bernard set out with re- 


414 


NEW lights; or, 


newed spirits for Father O’Driscoll’s. lie found 
the good priest busy giving instructions to no less 
than four of the poor perverts, who having got 
work from one farmer and another, were no longer 
in need of the soup^ and came to seek forgiveness 
from their long-deserted pastor, and a reconcilia- 
tion with that old, venerable Church, which had, 
they trusted, sent generations of their kindred to 
heaven. Bernard was leaving the room when he 
perceived what was going on, but Father O’Dris- 
coll called him back, observing that the penitents 
whom he saw there were quite willing that their 
return to the ‘ one fold’ should be made public, in 
order to make satisfaction for the scandal they had 
given. 

“ But, indeed, indeed, your reverence,” said one, 
“ it wasn’t our faut. 1 know very well that we 
ought to die of hunger sooner than run the risk of 
losin’ our souls, an’ maybe if we had only our- 
selves, Father O’Driscoll, we might hould out to 
the last, but, ochone ! when a man sees the wife 
an’ the little ones faintin’ and dyin’ with hunger 
before his eyes, an’ himself worse than any o’ 
them — when the food is neither to be had for askin’ 
nor earnin’ — och, sure, it’s hard to stand it — sure 
it is, your reverence, especially with the divil whis- 
perin’ at one’s elbow, ‘ Go to the soup-shop — 
there’s plenty there — if you let them die it’s your 
iwn faut !’ Nobody knows, your reverence, 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


41 & 


oept God alone, how hard it is to stand that temp* 
tation.” 

“ I know it, Thady !*’ said the priest, soothingly ; 
•‘I know it well, ray poor fellov/ — tne tempters 
come to you in your sorest need, armed with ir.o- 
ney, food and clothes, while we have nothing to give 
but our prayers and our sympathy. Ah! it is 
terrible, terrible, the struggle that you have to 
maintain between faith and famine I” 

Bernard, seeing that there was no immediate 
prospect of having Father O’Driscoll alone, went 
forward and gave him the letter, saying he should call 
for it next day. When he got home, the first object 
that presented itself was granny Mulligan’s big 
bag lying on the table, and the next was its owner 
herself, seated in her usual place by the “ ingle- 
side.” She was smoking aw^ay from a short cutty 
pipe, and, at the same time, giving directions to 
Eveleen, who was trying her hand at a potatoe 
cake, on the table near her. 

“Why, granny Mulligan, in the world wide is 
this you 1” said Bernard. “ You’re jist the very 
woman I’m glad to see. We thought you were 
down about the Lake side, somewhere.” 

“ So I was, Bernard !” replied the imperturbable 
old woman ; “but I heard a fly in’ report last night 
that you got a letther from the boys, so I cut my 
stick froT^ Neddy Breen’s, where I was, an’ made 
bef^ aay w^ay up, this mornin’, to see if it 


416 


NEW LI GHTS J OR, 


was tlirue. You needn’t throuble yourself telliD 
me, now, for the girls tould me all about it.” 

“ But wo didn’t tell her about what Bridget sent 
for herself, father !” said Eveleen ; “ we left iliai 
for you.” 

“Ah, now, do you tell me that Bridget sent me 
something all the way from England said gran- 
ny, taking the pipe from her mouth. 

“ She sent you this !” replied Bernard, going into 
the room, and returning with a very handsome 
rosary of cocoanut beads, linked with silver, and 
having a pendent crucifix of the same metal. 
Granny Mulligan’s eyes filled with tears, as shd 
took the beads, and carefully examined their various 
beauties, not one of which escaped her observation. 

“ So you see, Bridget doesn’t forget poor granny 
Mulligan,” said she at length, as she wiped away 
a trickling tear. “ An’ Kathleen tells me, too, that 
Cormac and Daniel both sent their love to me.” 

“ An’ more shame for them if they didn’t !’^ 
observed Bernard. 

“Hut, tut! Bernard, don’t say that 
world’s gettin’ so cowld, an’ the people are all so 
taken up with themselves, that it does an ould body’s 
heart good to see a spark of kindness or gratitude 
in the young people risin’ up. But sure there’s 
nothing in these cliildhren o’ yours but good-nature 
an’ the heighth o’ friendship, an’ they had that in 
them since they wore weeny things runnin’ around \ 


LIFE IN G .VLWAY. 


417 


W ell, indeed, I’m proud an’ thankful that they all 
remember poor culd granny.”. 

In the course of the evening, Kathleen told gran- 
ny that she must give over rambling, and spend 
the remainder of hei days with them ; “ for now, 
thanks be to God ! we have the manes of keepin’ 
yo'i comfortable I” 

For a moment the old woman was silent ; her 
lips moved as though she were talking to herself, 
and then there came a big tear trickling slowly 
from either eye ; E veleen put her arm coaxingly 
round her neck, and said : “ Ah do ! granny — do 
come and stay' with us altogether !” 

“Well! I b’lieve 1 must give in, childhren !” 
said granny, all of a sudden. “ 1 never thought 
to see the day when I’d agree to settle myselt 
down, an’ never go out again among the ould cro- 
nies, that gave me a warm corner everywhere I 
went; but Parson Hendherson tould me, no later 
nor yesterday, when he met me on the road, that 
he’d have me taken up for a vagrant, if I went 
about beggin’ any more, so, for fear he’d keep hi^ 
word, I think it’s best for me to content myself 
here among the good Christians that’ll make me 
w^elcome, an’ not put myself in the power o’ them 
•-black-hearted villains o’ the world, that wouldn’t 
desire betther than to get an excuse for tormentin’ 
a poor ould Papist like me. Phil Maguire an' 
Nanny made me welcome to go an’ live with 


418 


NEW LI OTS; OR, 


them, so I can stay part >’ the time with them, an 
the other part with you. Father O’Driscoll, the 
Lord’s blessin’ on him ! always gives me the price o’ 
the tobaccy, an’ always will, he says, while he’s 
in the parish ! So, in the name of God, Kathleen 
dear, I’ll do what you bid me, for I know I’m wel- 
come, an’ that I’m with my own while I’m with 
you 1” 

“ That’s right, granny, that’s right !” said Ber- 
nard ; “ so mind this is your home for the time to 
come. Sorra poorhouse you’ll go to while we have 
a shelther for you.” 

“ But, surely, granny 1” said Owen, who dearly 
loved a joke, “ surely, you didn’t ask charity Irom 
Ilenderson 

“ Is it me ask charity from him !” exclaimed the 
old woman in a tone of the most supreme con- 
tempt. “ Do you think I’d be such a fool ? oh, 

then, indeed, I didn’t, an’ it’s what I said to him 
when he taxed me with bein’ a beggar : ‘ Did I ever 
ax you for anything ?’ — says I to him. ‘ Faix 1 
didn’t, bekase I knew very well that I wouldn’t get 
it, barrin’ it ’id be a thract or a testament, Misther 
Ilendherson, an them’s very poor comfort for hun- 
gry bellies !’ With that he rise his whip to me, 
an’ bid me be olf, for a troublesome old Romanist-- 
I think that was the word !” 

So now we have settled granny Mulligan “ in 
pace an’ quiteness,” as she said herself, with thn 


LIFE IS GALWAY. 


419 


O’Daly family — all “well and doing well ditto 
Phil Maguire, and h'is close- ^sted, yet charitable 
helpmate ; Sir James and Lady Trelawney safely 
moored under shelter of the old rock, or in other 
words happily embarked in the stout old ship — of 
which Peter is the helmsman, and Our Lord him- 
self the pilot ; Father O’Driscoll is still breasting 
the torrent of persecution, and waging successful 
warfare, in his own quiet way, against the hydra- 
headed monster of Proselytism ; we have shown 
poor Andrew McGilligan foiled on every hand in 
his attempts to spread what he calls “ Gospel truths'"* 
and relaxing his efforts in sullen despair. It only 
remains to say a word of the Dixon family, 
Amelia, during her stay with Lady Trelawney, re- 
newed her acquaintance with Lieutenant Gray, who 
with his friend Captain Hampton, was then sta- 
tioned in the neighborhood of Trelawney House. 
She very soon cured the . young officer (who was 
not without a certain amount of good sense) oi 
the lisping dandyism which he had allowed himself 
to contract, and as he had a small property in ad- 
dition to his pay, they managed, as Amelia wrote 
to her mother : “just to keep their heads decently 
above water, and let people see that they were 
somebody !” Mr. Dixon and Mr. Ousely very 
soon made up the quarrel, and went over to Eng- 
land together soon after the birth of Eleanor’s soUi 
Lo visit their respective daughters and son-in-law:^ 


120 


NEW lights; or, 


on wliich occasion Ousely gave great offence to 
Mrs. Hampton, by forswearing all future connec- 
tion with the Jumpers and Proselytizers, and con- 
signing them to warm quarters in the other world. 
Mrs. Ousely and Mrs. Dixon accompanied their 
liege lords, and they -were all so charmed with 
their visit that they could scarce make up their 
minds to return home. This was especially the 
case with Mrs. Ousely, who, unlike her frieiid, had 
now no tie to bind her to Ireland. Finally there 
was a compromise effected, to the effect that Tre- 
* lawney and Eleanor should spend part of each year 
in Ireland, Mr. Ousely declaring that, with all its 

poverty and Romanism, he’d rather, a d d sight, 

live in Ireland than in England.” 

“ Why, my dear father 1” said Eleanor with her 
arch smile, “ I don’t wonder at your preferring 
Ireland and ‘ the old house at home,’ where you 
have the full blaze of those New Lights, which 
must, surely, have spread their radiance far and 
wide by this time, seeing that they were burning 
so brightly when left, now better than a year 
ago 1” 

“ Blast them for New Lights !” cried her father 
pettishly ; “ they’re nothing but confounded will-o 
th£-wisj)s, as I can tell to my cost. I don’t mean to 
say that I’ve any greater love for Romanism than 
I had, save and except this Papist daughter of 
mine and* her better half — but I’ve got my eyo 


L'lFK IN GALWAY. 


431 


Opened of late to the goings on of these same New 
Lights, and I say they’re doing no good for cither 
king, country, or religion.” 

“ Never mind, Ousely !” said Dixon, tapping him 
on the shoulder, “ they’ll soon burn out — you and 
I may live to see the good old times back again — 
by George ! there’s more life, and light, and heat, 
in what is facetiously termed ‘ the darkness of the 
Irish people,’ than in this unnatural flare kindled 
by the Proselytizers !” 

“ As far as Eleanor and myself are concerned,” 
said Trelawney, “I can assure you that we owe 
;vir conversion solely to these same New Lights, 
60 thal we, at least, are much indebted to theiao** 


m 


NEW lights; or, 


CGNCLUSION. 

Bv way of introducing some oT^servations which 
I mean to make on the proselytizing system in 
Ireland, I think I cannot do better than lay the fol- 
lowing extracts before the reader, with the single 
remark that they are all from Protestant wTitet^i 
^ whose words 1 give verbatim, 

“ There is not in the world a more modest race 
of women than the Irish ; a remark which equally 
applies to all ranks and classes among them. . . . 
The Irish are a most obliging, kind-hearted, and 
hospitable people. In all these qualities they are un- 
equalled by any other nation in Europe. To have 
an opportunity of obliging, or showing attention 
to a stranger, affords an Irishman a pleasure of the 
highest order. . . . The Irish are a nation of 
practical philanthropists ; they rejoice in the hap- 
piness of others. They are happy if they can only 
promote the happiness of strangers. One might 
travel from one extremii^y of the Island to another, 
without having cause to complain of a cold look, 
an unkind word, or an ungenerous action. , . . As 
regards hospitality, again, it is known that the 
Irish have always been proverbial. They will 


LIFE IN GALWAY 


423 


share their last meal with you, and he miserable 
if you refuse to participate of it. . . . Even the 
poor peasant, who has only his one meal a-day, 
and that consisting of potatoes, will cheerfully di- 
vide it with any poor creature who chances to pass 
his door. . . . How unlike the poor of this coun- 
try ! There is little sympathy towards each other 
among them. JVe are, as comjMred with the Irish^ 
an unfeeling and selfish people " — Impressions op 
Ireland and the Irish. 

“ Everybody knows that a stranger could travel 
in the worst of times,' and in the worst districts, 
at all hours of the day or night, with a charmed 
life, and, in fact, never be insulted or molested.” — 
Stark’s Tour in Ireland. 

“ As regards the women of Ireland, their native 
modesty cannot fail to attract the observation of 
any stranger.” ' “ Erom the morning on which 1 
had visited the great model National School, in 
Marlborough Street, Dublin, to the hour of my 
arrival at Galway, I had remarked, in the Irish 
female countenance, an innate or native modesty, 
more clearly legible than it has ever been my Ibr- 
tune to read in journeying through any other coun- 
try on the globe. ... I am convinced that no 
man of ordinary observation can have travelled, or 
can now travel, through Ireland, wi.hout corrobo- 
rating the fact. 

“ But I have lived long enough to know that 


424 


NEW LIO Hie; OR, 


outward appearartce cannot always be trusted, and, 
accordingly, wherever I w^ent, I made inquiries, 
the result of which was not only to confirm, hut 
to over-confirm, my own observation ; indeed, from 
the Resident Commissioner of the Board of Na- 
tional Educaion in the metropolis, down to the 
governors of jails and masters of the remotest 
workhouses, I received statements of the chastity 
of the Irishwomen, so extraordinary, that I must 
confess I could not believe them ; in truth, I was 
infinitely more puzzled hy what I heard, ilmn by the 
^ dimple evidence of my own eyes'"* 

“ I feel it right to state that, up to the period of 
my arrival at Oughterard, I had not, in Ireland, 
excepting in the police-cell in Dublin, seen one 
drunken person, either male or female.” 

“ The devotional expressions of the lower class 
of Irish, and the meekness and resignation with 
which they hear misfortune or affliction, struck me very 
forcibly. ... A Protestant Clergyman of great 

EXPERIENCE TOLD ME THAT, IN ALL HIS INTERCOURSE 

WITH Irish Catholics, he had never met with an 
Infidel.” 

“ Why,” said I to myself, as I finally closed the 
note-book of my little tour ; “ why, for so long a 
period, have the inhabitants of Ireland been cen- 
trifugally ejected from their country, as if its 
lovely, verdant surface were a land blasted by 
pestilence^ or as if its virtv ous and intelligkn* 


LIFE IN GALWAY 


425 


PEASANTRY Were malefiictors, whc had been sen- 
tenced to transportation f’— S ir F. B. Head’s 
Fortnight in Ireland. 

“ Happy would it be if all who read the Scrip- 
tures more than this unnoticed woman,” a poor old 
Irisfiwoman, “ would practice its precepts as well.” 

“7/ the jirofessed Christian^ mth the Bible in his 
handy do not know his duty towards the stranger^ 
then let him ‘ tie a string"^ around that Bible ^ and go 
into some mountain cabin where the Bible has never 
been, and there take a lesson. 

“ Does this look like idleness ! Many a poor 
widow have I seen, with some little son or daughter, 
spreading her manure by moonlight, over her 
scanty patch of ground ; or before the rising of the 
sun, going out with her whisp about her forehead, 
and basket to her back, to gather her turf or pota- 
toes.” 

“ Yet the story of Calvary was well under- 

stood, and they made a better application of the 
Scrip)tures they did know^ than do many who read 

them daily! “ In no place did they appear dark 

on the subject of Christ’s death and sufferings.” 
Note, p. 296. 

“ Lamentable as it is, the lower class oi 

Protestants, wherever I have met them in Ireland, 
are more ignorant of theii religion than the same 
class among the Catholics.” 

The next day we visited a school of the nima 

36 * 


rf26 NEW lights; or, 

Here were more than three hundred of the poor 
taught in the most thorough manner. Their ies 
sons in grammar, geography and history, would d J 
honor to any school, and their needlework was of 
the highest order.” 

“ I blessed the Father of all mercies that 

he had left in one island of the sea, a people wh( 

STILL RETAIN THE SIMPLE LIFE AND SIMPLE MANNERS 
OF PATRIARCHAL DAYS.” 

“ 1 heard of Connemara, that it had been a 
custom from time immemorial, that if a stranger 
'' 4s not welcomed into a cabin at night-fall, or leaves 
it in a storm, the cabin-holder is immediately 
called upon to inquire into the reason ; and if i?. 
appears that it is inhospitality, that family is se: 
up as a mark of contempt to its neighbors.” 

“ I asked the boy to read ; he did so intelligibly, 
and answered every question from the second of 
Matthew, respecting the birth of the Saviour, cor- 
rectly He was ready in the Scriptures, 

THOUGH he had BEEN TRAINED IN THE CaTHOLIC 
Church.” 

“ Had my reception am,ong the higher and middle 
ranks (that is to say, the Protestants) been as 
Christian-like and as civil as among the (Catholic) 
poor, it would have been one monotonous tissue^ which 
might have spread a false coloring before my eyes^ 
so that her (Ireland’s) true character would have been 
hdderf^ (That is to say. had the WTiter only moved 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


421 


amongst the Catholic poor of Ireland, slie would 
have been saved the cold inhospitality and haughty 
contempt and injurious suspicions which she in al- 
most every instance experienced from the Protes. 
tant rich.) 

“ To the Roman Catholics, both duty and incli- 
nation require that I should acknowledge a deep 
debt of gratitude. They have opened the doors o! 
convents, of schools, of mansions, and cabins, 
without demanding letters, or distrusting those 
that were presented. They have sheltered me 
from storm and tempest ; they have w^armed and 
fed me without fee or reward, when my Protestant 
brethren and sisters frowned me away. God will re- 
member this, and 1 will remember it.” 

“The teacher observed that the Bible was 
daily read ; ‘ and I find the children of the Catholics 
much more ready in the Scriptures than the Pro- 
testants, and make me much less trouble in getting 
their lessons. I cannot account for the fact, but so 
it is.’ The circumstance is easily explained. The 
Scripture which is expounded to them by their 
SPIRITUAL guides, IS IMPRESSED AS BEING OF THE 
MOST AWFUL IMPORTANCE, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES OF 
THE MOST WEIGHTY IMPORT ; AND WHEN THEY GET 
ACCESS TO THIS TESTIMONY OF GOD, THEY ARE PRE- 
PARED TO TREAT IT AS SUCH. ThE PrOTESTANT 
CHILD RELISHES IT NO BETTER THAN A STALE PIECE OF 
iBKAD AND BUTTER, WHICH HE IS OFTEN FORCED TO 


NEW lights; or 


m 

EAT AS A PUNISHMENT, WHEN HZ'!! STOMACH IS AL* 
READY SA*TIATED. An INTELLIGENT GENTLEMAN FROU 

Dublin. REMARKED, that he was whipped through 
THE Bible by a Protestant hncle when a child, 
and had hated it ever since.”- — Mrs. Nicholson’s 
Ireland's Welcome to the Stranger. 

“ They were Protestants. . . . But sorry am I to 
say, that in no family had J heard so much pro- 
flinity, both from mother and children. I would 
not expose it^ . . . . but such sins should be rebuked 
before ali.” — Ibid. 

“ Many favorable opportunities presented, to be- 
come acquainted with the effects of the famine 

upon the Romish priests They had two 

drawbacks which the Protestants in general had not. 
First, a great proportion of them are quite poor ; 
and second, they, in the first season of the famine, . 
were not intrusted with grants, as the Protestants 

were One Protestant clergyman informea 

me, that so much confidence had he in the integrity 
of the Catholic priest in his parish, that when he 
had a large grant sent to hnii, he offered as much 
of it to the priest as he could distribute, knowing, 
he added, that it would be done with the greatest 
promptitude and fidelity. No ministers of religion 
in the world know as much of their people as do 
the Catholics, not one of their flock is forgotten, 
scarcely by name, however poor or degraded^ and 
consequently, when the famine came, they had n.?t 





LIFE IN GALWAY 


429 


U) search ov.t the poor, they knew the identical 
cabin in which every starving one was lying, and 
» . . . were in a condition to act most effectually.’ 

“ To do these poor priests justice, they have la- 
bored long and hard since the famine, and have 
suffered intensely. They have the most trying 
difficulties to encounter, without the least remune- 
ration In the famine, night and day, 

THEIR SERVICES WERE REQUISITE, NO FEVERS NOR 
LOATHSOME DENS, NOR EVEN CAVES COULD EXONERATE 
THEM ; THEY MUST GO WHENEVER CALLED, AND THIS 

WITHOUT ANY REMUNERATION.” MrS. NiCHOLSOn’ 

Annals of the Famine in Ireland, 


proselytism. 


“ It requires the Irish language to provide suita- 
ble words for a suitable description of the spirit 
which is manifested in some parts to proselytize, 
by bribery, the obstinate Romans (Catholics) tc 
the Church wffiich has been an instrument of op 
pression for centuries. The English language is 
too meagre to delineate it in the true light. Rice, 
Indian meal, and black bread would, if they had 
tongues, tell sad and ludicrous tales. The artless 
children too, who had not become adepts in deceit, 
would and did sometimes by chance tell the story, 
in short and pithy style. It was a practice by 
some of the zealots of this class to open a school 
or schools, and invite those children who were in 
deep want to attend and instruction, clothes, ana 


4S0 


NEW LI GHTS OK, 


food should be given, on the simple terms of read 
ing the Scriptures and attending the church. The 
Church catechism must be rehearsed as a substitute 

for the Romish The children flocked b^ 

scores and even hundreds ; they were dying with 
hunger, and by going to these places they could 
‘ keep the life in them,’ and that was what the)' 
most needed ; they could go on the principle, ‘ ij 
thou hast faithj have it to thyself before God^ and 
when the hunger was appeased, (they could go baclt 
again to their own religion.) When such chUdreu 
were interrogated, the answer would be, ‘ We are 
going back again to our own chapel, or our own reli- 
gion, when the stirabout times are over or ‘ w'hen 
the potatoes come again.’ — ‘ But you are saying 
these prayers and learning this catechism.’ — ‘We 
shan’t say the prayers when we go back — we’ll say 
our own then,’ &c. Now the more experienced fa- 
ther or mother would not have said this to a stran 
ger, and such might have passed for a true convert, 
while receiving ‘ the stirabout.’ — Ihid^ pp. 300-301. 

“ The army is required to show its w'arlike power 
in defence of the missionaries stationed there, being 
called out to display their banners Avhen any new 
converts are to be added to the Protestant rankj 
from the Romish Church. An instance of this wa% 
related by a coast-guard officer, stationed in the 
town of Dingle. Some five or six years ago, a 
half dozen or more of the Romans had concluded 


LIFE IN GALWAY 


m 

to unite with the Protestant mission established 
there, and the Sabbath that the union w^as to take 
place in the Church, the soldiery were called out to 
march under arms, to protect this little band from 
the^ fearful persecutions that awaited them on their 
way thither. The coasbguard officer w^as summoned 
to be in readiness cap-a-pie for battle, if battle should 
be necessary ; he remonstrated — he was a Methodist 
by profession, and though his occupation was some- 
thing warlike, yet he did not see any need of carnal 
weapons in building up a spiritual Church ; but he 
was under government pay, and must do govern- 
ment w^ork. He accordingly obeyed, and, to use 
his own words substantially : ‘We marched in 
battle array, with gun and bayonet, over a handful 
of peasantry — a spectacle to angels of our trust in a 
Crucified Christ, and the ridicule and gratification of 
priests and their flocks, who had discernment suf- 
licient to see that, with all the boasted pretensions 
of a purer faith and better object of worship (!) 
both were not enough to shield our heads against 
a handful of turf wffiich might have been thrown 
by some ragged urchin, with the shout of “ turn- 
coat” or “ souper,” as this was the bribe which the 
Romanists said was used to turn the poor to the 
Church ; and though this w^as before the potato? 
famine, yet the virtues of soup were well known 
tlnui in cases of hungry stomachs, and the Dingle 
mission had one in boiling order for all who came 


432 


NEW LIGHTS , OR, 


to their prayers.’ The coast-guard continues; 

‘ We went safely to the Church, and the next mi^ 
sion paper, to my surprise and mortification, tolc;. 
a pitying world that so great were the persecutions 
an Dingle, that the believing converts could not go 
to the house of God to profess their faith in Hini- 
without calling out the soldiery to protect them.’ ” 

• — Ibid^ pp. 303, 304. 

“ The Roman Catholics are peculiarly distinct in 
une noble practice, from all other professed Chris- 
tians wc meet. They will not in the least gape 
after, nor succumb to any man’s religion, because 
he is great and honorable ; — where their religious 
fliith is concerned, they call no man master.” — Ibid^ 
p. 314. 

“ The old hackneyed story of Popery in Ire- 
land has been so turned and twisted that everv 

•/ 

side has been seen — nothing new can be said 
against it. There it stands .... the same in 
essence, as when Queen Elizabeth put her anathemas 
forth against its creeds and practice ; and, with all 
her errors (!) she miaintalns a few principles and 
practices ivhich it would be well for her more Bible 
neighbors to imitate. Her great ones are more 

ACCESSIBLE ; THE POOR OF THEIR OWN CLASS, OR OF 
ANY OTHER, ARE NOT KEPT AT SUCH AN AWFUL DIS- 
TANCE ; THE STRANGER IS SELDOM FROWNED COLDLY 
FROM THEIR DOOR ; TO THEM THERE APPEARS TO BE A 
BACREDNESS in THE VERY WORD \VITH WHICH THEY 


LIFE IN GALWAY. 


433 


WOULD NOT trifle; THE QUESTION IS NOT, IS IE OR 
SHE ‘ RESPECTABLE,’ BUT A STRANGER ; IF SO, THEN 
HOSPITALITY MUST BE USED WITHOUT GRUDGING. In 
the mountains and sea-coast parts, it has erer been 
the custom to set the cabin door open at night, 
Rnd keep up a fire on the hearth, that the way-far 
ing man and the lone stranger, should he be 
benighted, could sec by the light that there is wel 
come for him ; and if they have but one bed. the 
family get up and give it to the stranger, sitting 
up, and having the fire kept bright through the 
night. This has been done for me, without knowing 
or asking whether I was Turk or Christian ; and were 
I again to walk over that country, or be out at 
nightfall in storm or peril, as has been my lot, and 
come in sight of two castle-towers, one a Roman, 
and the other a Protestant owner ; and were the 
former a mile beyond^ my di^xidt way would be made 
to that, knowing that when the porter should tell 
ihe master a stranger w^as at the gate, he w^ould 
say : ‘ Welcom-e the stranger in for the night, or 
from the storm.’ ” — Ibid^ p. 328. 

“ The Catholics are much more humble in 
THEIR demeanor, AND CERTAINLY MUCH MORE HOSPI- 
TABLE AND OBLIGING IN ALL RESPECTS, AS A PEOPLE. 

They aiie more self-denying, will sacrifice their 
jWN comforts for the afflicted, MCRE READILf 
WILL they attend THEIR PLACES OF WORSHIP, CLOTIt- 

fcD OR UNCLOTHED, AND BEGGARS TAKE AS HIGH A 
37 


43i 


NEW LIOHTSJ OR, 


PLACE OFTEN IN THE CHAPEL AS THE RICH MiS.”— 
A oidf jp« o^O. 

This, then, reader ! is a picture of the Irish 
people as they are. We here learn from good 
Protestant authority — for I have quoted no other— 
that they are, take them all in all, a nation of hum 
ble, practical Christians ; chaste, modest, patient, 

kind and hospitable — enduring all things ay ! 

more than ever nation bore — yet enduring with a 
cheerfulness, a resignation that could only have 
their source in the purest and holiest spirit of 
Christianity. Mrs. Nicholson, a member of the 
Presbyterian Church, in her two remarkable works 
on Ireland, gives innumerable instances of the pa- 
tient endurance of the poor starving people, and 
their cheerful resignation to the -will of God ; — she 
makes grateful mention of their spontaneous kind- 
ness and their heroic self-denial in practising the 
Christian duty of hospitality. She unhesitatingly 
admits that in these respects the Protestants — 
ministers and all — were not to be compared to the 
Catholics ; — she gives a graphic picture of the cold, 
Felhsli hypocrisy of the Achill ministers, their 
utter want of even common kindness, and their 
injurious treatment of the w^ell-meaning, though 
somewhat fanatical stranger. She relates other 
instances of the treatment she received at the 
hands of rich Protestant philanthropists and Pro- 
Felytizers — for the most part, synonymous terms— 


LIFE IN O AL W 4 r. 


4S5 


which avfe admirably calculated to sho\y the dilTer 
ence between Charity and Philanthropy — the 
former beautifully illustrated in the poor, humble, 
unpretending Catholic, and the latter in the rich 
Protestant patrons of the New Reformation. And 
yst such is hie force of fanaticism that this very 
woman still bewails the influence of Romanism, 
and sighs for the advent of a purer religion — looks 
forward to the Scriptural enlightenment of the 
people as the grand means of improving their con- 
dition — that is to say, she would have them be- 
come rich and comfortable in this Scriptural reli- 
gion of hers, at the expense of their Christian virtues 
and endearing qualities. She would have them 
no to Christ , when it is clear as the noonday 
sun — even from her own showing — that the spirit 
of Christ dwells with them — if it did not, how 
could they suffer hunger and cold and nakedness, 
and behold their nearest and dearest dying of star- 
vation, and yet bless God, as did the holy man Job 
under his afflictions. Sir Francis Bond Head, who 
is anythnig but favorable to the Catholic religion, 
says that it is quite extraordinary to hear these 
poor people praising and blessing God in toe midst 
of all their sufferings. Why, then, would be and 
liis rob them of that old, firm faith, and that Catho- 
lic devotion which has cheered and consolea their 
fathers, and still does the same for them ? What 
would the prosely tizers have % Do n( t the Catholic 


NEW lights; or, 


m 

people Df Ireland love God and hope in him 1 — “ In 
no plaoe did they appear in the dark on the subject 
of Christ's death and suffering.” — “A Protestant 
clergyman of great experience said that in all his 
intercourse with Irish Catholics he had never met an 
infidel.” — They are taught to regard the Scriptures 
with greater reverence, and as being of awful im- 
portance.” — “ They are a nation of practical philan- 
thropists.” Their women are admitted to have 
an innate modesty, and to be more chaste than 
any other women known to the Protestant writer — 
“ their great ones are more accessible” — “ they 
are more humble in their demeanor.” What, 
then, I repeat, would the proselytizers have ? — Will 
they dare to maintain the palpable absurdity that 
the religion of these people is not the religion of 
Christ 1 — or that the religion of the Achill ministers, 
and the hard-hearted, proud, self-righteous philan- 
thropists Even they, it would seem, could 
scarcely maintain such a barefaced falsehood. 

With regard to the old, stale calumny that the 
Catholic religion has the effect of stultifying the 
mind and freezing “ the genial current of the soul,” 
I might quote innumerable Protestant authors to 
prove the contrary. I shall only give one quotcO- 
tion on the subject. It is Mrs. Nicholson who 
again speaks. Hear her describe a Catholic lady 
and her family : — “ The piano and the harp, the 
ancient boast of Ireland’s better days, were there 


I .F S IN G ALWAY . 


43i 


aiid the lady, who had been educated in a convent 
knew well how to touch the heart b}? her melody. 
Her two little daughters, who were but children, 
did honor to her who had trained them with a skil- 
ful hand. Never had I seen high birth, beauty, 

AND NOBLE INTELLECTUAL ATTAINMENTS MORE HAP- 
PILY BLENDED WITH A MEEK AND QUIET SPIRIT THAN 
IN THIS ACCOMPLISHED WOMAN. TllOUgh she WaS 

rioman Catholic, yet the higher class of Protestants 
were anxious to place their daughters under her careP 
Mrs. Nicholson’s surprise only goes to prove that 
she knew as little of the real workings of the 
Catholic religion as she did of Catholic ladies. Ot 
all the impudent fictions ever palmed upon the cre- 
dulous, that of Catholicity being incompatible with, 
or inimical to the cultivation of the mind, or the 
progress of art and science, is the most audacious, 
because the most unfounded. How amusing is it — 
yet withal provoking, to hear the halfeducated, 
perhaps wholly illiterate Scripture-reader, holding 
forth to the astonished natives of some wild Con- 
nemara glen on “ the darkness of Popery” — “ the 
grievous bondage wherein Popery holds the human 
fnind” — “ the glorious light and liberty enjoyed by 
Protestants,” &c., &c. How little does the poor 
drivelling ranter himself know of “Popery”! — 
how little does he think that the greatest, best, and 
most enlightened men whom the world has ever 
been have been and are Roman Catholics — that the 

37 * 


433 


NEW lights; or, 


face of Europe is covered with the iimnortal crea- 
tions of Popish genius — that the stately cathedrals 
erected to the glory of God in Catholic times are 
still the admiration of the world — little dreams he 
of what Michael Angelo, the greatest painter who 
has yet lived — Rubens — Rembrandt — Canova — Ti- 
tian — Claude Lorraine — Carlo Dolchi — Guido — 
Tasso — Dante — Pope — Dry den —all Catholics, 
have done for the arts and human letters — nor 
what Catholic missionaries and Catholic martyrs 
have done for religion. 

St. Francis Xavier, St. Francis de Sales, St. Ig- 
natius Loyola, Fenelon, Bossuet, More, and Fisher 
are utterly ignored, and so is the grand truth that 
the great lights through whose agency God has il- 
lumined the earth, were and are, for the most part. 
Catholics — that the great universities of Europe 
were almost all founded by Catholics — that the 
Constitution of which Protestant England is so 
proud, is principally the work of Catholic kings 
and nobles in the old “ ages of faith” — that the no- 
blest actions on record were achieved by Catholics 
— that Wallace, and Tell, and Hofer were Catholic 
to the heart’s core, though Protestants — the 
ephemeral offspring of latter ages — do modestly 
descant upon “ the slavish spirit of Catholics” — 
“ the debasing influence of Rome,” &c., &c. Oh ! 
for a tongue to make those poor Connemara moun- 
laincers hurl back the base calumnies heaped upon 


LIFE IN GALWAY, 


their fa, jh — that faith which is only known to them 
as the true religion — the consoler of their affliction — 
the strength of their weakness — the hope of their 
sufferings — ^the light of their darksome path : they 
know nothing, poor, simple Christians, of the ra^ 
diant halo that encircles the brow of that divine 
religion : 


“ For knowledge, to their eyes, her ample page, 

Rich With the spoils of time, hath ne’er unroll’d.” 

But though they cannot look back through the 
pages of history, they can through the traditions 
of their fathers ; these tell them of a period when 
the land of Ireland was all Catholic ; when the heretic 
or the stranger found not his way into their Alpine 
regions — when peace and plenty prevailed, and 
men and women lived for heaven, content with 
whatevei little God might have given them here 
on earth, and willing to share it with those who 
had still less, and so they lived happy and died 
well. These are the traditions handed down 
amongst the Catholic people of Ireland, and they 
are as a wall of adamant guarding the nation’s 
faith. The proselytizer may spend his thousands 
and thousands of English gold, providing Bibles, 
and tracts, and “ stirabout,” and soup — he may 
flatter himself and the people who fill his pockets 
that he is doing wonders amongst the Irish pa- 
pists — he may succeed to a certain extent, whil® 


440 


NEW lights; or, 


famine contin ‘.es to desolate the land — (there are 
always to be found, even amongst ‘the virtuous 
and intelligent peasantry’ of Ireland, some few 
scape-goats whc go out into the desert, bearing. I 
trust, the sins of the people) — but when once 
the scourge has passed away, and ‘ plenty 
smiles again on the land,’ then the prosely- 
tizer, whether hypocrite or fanatic, shall see the 
whole castle of ins hopes topple to the ground, 
and his beautiful Fata. Morgana melt into air. He 
will find out the tiuth of what a certain car-driver 
said to Sir Francis B. Head (though I must take 
this opportunity of protesting against that gentle- 
man’s attempts at Irish phraseology or pronuncia- 
tion — both are entiiely at fault) : 

“A number of workmen,” says Sir Francis, 
“ were busily erecting a large, substantial stone 
Protestant Church, with Gothic windows. 

“ ‘ Thart’s,’ said the driver, as he pointed to it 
with his whip, ‘ for what we ca’ “ Joompers but 
if the pittaturs would return, they’d a’ come back. 
They w'ould, indade, your arn’r.” — p. 153. 

And who can doubt that the man spoke the 
truth? Hoes not every day’s experience show 
the poor Jumpers or Soupers (as they are deri- 
sively called) returning to the old religion, when 
once the pressure of famine is past ? When they 
get money from abroad, or permanent employment 
at home, is not “ their fii st race,” as they would 


LIFE in OALWAT. 


441 


say themselvgs, “ to the priest,” and their first act 
to bwonie reconciled to that holy Church, which 
their tepiporary apostacy has made all the more 
dear to their heart ? But above all, when death 
begins to approach — if time be given them — they 
almost invariably cry out for “ the priest,” and 
regard the public scandal they have given as the 
greatest, the most fearful of crimes. If any proot 
were wanted to shovv the true character of this 
persevering attack on the ancient faith of Ireland, 
it w^ould be found in the savage fury of the prose- 
lytizers w'hen these poor people escape from their 
clutches, and return to the Church. Thus we see 
them at one time bringing a suit against a poor 
man, for the clothes they had given him when he 
went to their Church — said clothes being the bribe 
meant to buy up his faith — at other times we see 
them suffering poor widows and other desolate 
creatures to die of hunger^ because they w'ould not 
take relief at the expense of their hopes of heaven ! 
Again we see them taking back, wdth the most 
unfeeling harshness, whatever they had given, be- 
cause the poor recipients of their bounty had at 
last acted on the dictates of conscience, and sought 
refuge once more in what they knew and felt w'as 
the ark of safety. One of the latest instances of 
this kind is especially deserving of attention. A 
poor man had been forced by the pangs of hungei 
“ to conform the proselytizers gave him r com 


442 


NEW lights; or, 


fortable c(^ttage, “ together with all the adjuncts 
he remained for several years (to all appearance) 
“ a good man and true” — that is to say, a» Jumper 
but at last, being taken sick, he sent for the priest, 
whereupon the Bible- Christians came in strength 
to dissuade him from returning Eome-wards (and 
Aome-wards) ; not being able to succeed (for the 
fear of death was before the sick man’s eyes), what 
does the reader suppose they did ? why they car- 
ried the sick man out, placed him on the road, and 
then tore the roof off the house, lest he or his 
might find shelter there again. Never, in the annals 
of the world, has there been so cruel a “ sham,” so 
‘ great a delusion” practised on mankind, as this of 
the Protestant attempts to convert Catholics, and 
above all, the Catholics of Ireland. The prosely- 
tizers find the Irish “ Papists” such as I have shown 
them to be, on unquestionable Protestant authority ; 
tnt,y find them pious, chaste, humble, patient, 
temperate, kind, generous, hospitable, bearing all 
things with resignation for God’s sake; they would 
make them what % — why, as unchaste and immoral 
as the Protestant nations around them, where 
thousands, millions of the people know not God or 
our Lord Jesus Christ, even in name ; where all 
manner of wickedness abounds, and the things of 
earth entirely supersede the things of heaven. 
Tney come to them, in their hypocritical kindness, 
with the open Bible in tl\eir hand, telling them tc 


life in GALWAY. 


443 


“ take and read,” just as though poor, simple, illi- 
cerate creatures like them are fit to fathom the 
sublime profundity of Holy Writ, which even the 
most learned of the Doctors of the Church approach 
with reverence and awe. Why, the bare idea is 
preposb-jrous, well nigh blasphemous. 

In conclusion I will quote, for the benefit of the 
Protestant reader, those memorable words of the 
late Richard Lalor Shiel, Ireland’s great orator, 
himself a faithful son of the Most Holy Church of 
Christ : 

“ The Catholic religion, indigenous to the soil of 
Ireland, has struck its roots far and deep in the 
hearts and affections of her people ; it grows 
beneath the axe, and opens with the blast ; whilst 
the Protestant creed, though preserved in a mag- 
nificent conservatory, at a prodigious cost, pines 
away like a sickly exotic, to which no natural 
vitality can be imparted.” 

It would be well if the Irish proselytizers and 
their supporters made a deep and earnest study of 
this texi; they would, perhaps, become both wiser 
and better men, and might save themselves a 
world of trouble, and useless trouble, too, for, 
with the blessing of God, the children of St. Pa- 
trick shall continue to be as they have ever been, 
immovably attached to the. chair of Peter, and 
guided by the old lamp of faith. 


THE END. 


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